


New Leaves

by BabalooBlue



Series: Take II [5]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:59:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 32,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7528372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabalooBlue/pseuds/BabalooBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you have to go back to move forwards. </p><p>**Set after 'Between The Notes'. Part of the 'Take II' series. I recommend reading the other stories before you give this one a go.**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks, as always, go to maineac for being such a patient beta reader and to Brighid45 for bouncing ideas around with me. Having said that, any remaining mistakes in this story are entirely my own.

People here knew how to make good coffee. Plenty of coffee shops and excellent coffee were this city's saving grace.

Truth be told, these weren't the only things House liked about Seattle. But the list wasn't very long. However, the weather wasn't great and played havoc with his leg most of the time. But since he hadn't expected to find paradise when they moved here he felt no urge to leave.

This was a city where you could easily feel at home – or so he thought. Maybe he was just tired of moving. He hadn't felt properly at home in a long time. Even his childhood homes had all been temporary. Princeton had probably come as close to a home as he'd ever had. His apartment there had been a comfortable space, a refuge of sorts. Princeton was the place he had stayed longest, without ever having planned to.

This - Seattle - hadn't been planned either. They had decided to stay here after Wilson's treatment. It was as good a place as any. Maybe even better, due to its proximity to Wilson's doctor. Neither of them had ever said it out loud but both were worried about a recurrence of Wilson's cancer. House certainly was. And Wilson knew too much not to worry. So staying was the most sensible option. For now.

For now, things were as good and as quiet as they could be. Too quiet, as far as House was concerned. Which was part of the reason he was here this morning.

House drained his cup and looked for the server. He didn't have to look far; she got up from her stool behind the counter the moment he put his cup down and turned away from his laptop screen.

"Don't you have anything bigger than thimble size?" he asked when she arrived at his table.

She raised her eyebrows. Maybe she was related to Wilson in a roundabout way. Although after his treatments, Wilson's brows had never quite grown back to their former glory. With the amount of poison that had been pumped into Wilson, House was surprised anything had grown back at all.

Things weren't the same as they had been three or four years ago. They never would be again. But maybe, for once, change wasn't a bad thing. That's what he kept telling himself. Wilson was alive. So was he. He just had to get that fact officially confirmed.

And to do that, he needed to be awake. He pointedly looked at his empty coffee cup.

"You're already on your second refill, how will a bigger cup help? If this isn't keeping you awake, I doubt a bigger cup will do the trick. Besides, it's quality that matters, not size."

"Is that what your boyfriend tells you?"

The waitress laughed but filled his cup anyway and turned around, knowing full well he was watching her. He could have sworn that was an extra nice hip swing when she disappeared behind the counter.

This wasn't his first visit, and it wasn't their first exchange of this kind. With a bit of luck – and a lot of other people's goodwill, he thought – it wouldn't be the last one either. The coffee here was almost as good as the organic Ethiopian grind Wilson bought. House liked it, although he'd never tell Wilson he even knew what coffee they were using every day.

House stretched his legs and, after another go at emptying that delicate cup, went back to his current project.

Not that he had made much progress since he had left the house two hours ago. He still hadn't made a decision, and it was high time he did. It wasn't only Wilson he had on his back; Stacy was getting impatient as well.

When he had called her a few weeks ago she had been more than willing to help him fix his problems. And boy, they were problems.

That day in the burning building he hadn't had much time to come up with a plan; he had acted on instinct alone. And it had worked. But it had never been meant to work forever. Wilson had only had five months then, give or take, and House hadn't given himself much more. It didn't have to be a permanent solution.

As it was, they were both still around. Wilson was still alive, and so was he – to his continued surprise.

Now that things were back to some semblance of normal, with Wilson back at work, life was getting tricky. And boring. House couldn't work, he couldn't even get a credit card – not that he really needed one. After all, he still knew how to scam Wilson.

Officially, Gregory House was dead and buried. But seeing as he was still very much alive, he was getting antsy. Now he was paying the price for not having a well-thought-out plan and acting on a smack-addled brain. He had some ideas about what he wanted to do. For all of them, he needed to reclaim his identity. Sam Aldersson wouldn't get his medical license back, even if he'd had one in the first place. Which he hadn't. Not even Mr. Alderson with one S had held one, as far as House knew. He had also been dead a while. House had taken the first name offered to avoid having to wait – and pay extra - for a bespoke new ID. The almost-connection to Samuel W. Alderson, inventor of the crash test dummy and 'medical phantoms', used to simulate reaction to radiation which he had read about in med school, had amused him a little initially. But he really didn't care about the name either way. It was time to retire Mr. Aldersson and resurrect Gregory House.

So he had decided to ask Stacy for advice. It had taken him a couple of days to finally make that call. But he'd had no other choice. After the initial shock of hearing his voice, she went straight into work mode and started pulling strings and calling in favors. How many strings he didn't want to know, in case he got so entangled he couldn't find his way out again.

A week later, she had a meeting set up for him.

He knew the date, and he knew the time. He had forgotten the guy's name, even his title, but he was sure Stacy would remind him. After she had picked him up.

And that's where a whole new problem lay. Pick him up where?

He had to be in New Jersey three weeks from today, and he had to figure out a way to get there. While his current ID hadn't come cheap, it would not pass closer inspection at an airport.

How do you get from one side of the country to the other if you're dead?

Stacy had suggested the train. It was the obvious choice. She had assured him that ID checks for trains and buses weren't as thorough as airport security checks, so he'd probably pass. But just the idea of being trapped on a train, for what would probably amount to days, gave him hives.

The bus was out for the same reason. It was even worse than the train because he wouldn't be able to move around when he needed to. And he would need to, that much he knew. He could barely sit in one position for an hour nowadays without having to shift or get up and stretch his legs.

He could drive. Just buy a cheap car, drive it across and fly back once everything was sorted. _If_ , not when. He knew it was a big if. There was always a chance Stacy was wrong, and things would go south after all. But a car wouldn't be much better on his leg than being stuck on a train for days. At least a train would continue moving towards his destination no matter what. If he took a car, he would have to make regular stops and lose precious time. It would take him ages to get to Princeton.

Short of inventing technology to beam him across to the other side of the continent, this really only left one more option to consider. It wasn't better than any of the others – worse even if you looked closely - and it was the one option neither Stacy nor Wilson nor his leg would approve of.

Not surprisingly, it was the only option he wanted.

He knew it wasn't sensible, but that word had never held a high ranking in his vocabulary. He knew it would be hell on his leg, and he would probably regret it. And time-wise it wouldn't be any better than the car. So he had to make up his mind and fast.

House went back to the last website he had opened.


	2. Chapter 2

House came home to clatter from the kitchen. He’d hoped to have more time and get home before Wilson returned from work.

He dumped his bags in the hallway, grateful to lose the additional weight, and limped into the kitchen.

Wilson stood at the counter. This had become a familiar sight again after he had lost interest in food for a long time. He didn’t eat. Or not enough anyway. Getting food into Wilson during his treatment, and for some time afterwards, had been a battle House had fought valiantly. It wasn’t an entirely heroic fight, though. He missed Wilson’s cooking. Occasionally, he dreamed of home-cooked breakfasts and roasts on a weekend. Everyone could live on take-out, but it lost its appeal after a while. All you were left with then was the convenience aspect. House could cook but the kitchen really was Wilson’s domain. So he went about the mammoth task of making him enjoy eating again, hoping that once he got that far, he would also start cooking again.

Whenever House could, he had made soups, potato mash with lashings of cream, casseroles – anything that was easy to swallow, not too spicy, had lots of protein and plenty of calories. Wilson picked at the food and complained about a metallic taste in his mouth.

House kept cooking.

Slowly, Wilson put some of the weight he’d lost back on. House guessed he would never regain that boyish look he had sported when they had met all those years ago. But eventually, Wilson arrived back at a healthy weight and didn’t look like death had taken a big bite and spit him out again after finding him lacking in flavor. 

It took a lot longer for him to enter the kitchen again. And when he finally did, it emerged that his taste was slightly off. Wilson’s dishes had been a little bland ever since. But House was so pleased to see Wilson return to cooking that he didn’t even complain about it. Nor did the predominance of vegetables in most dishes bother him much.

House grinned at Wilson’s back clad in work pants and shirt, with green apron strings tied in a neat bow. He lifted the foil off a roasted chicken resting on the counter and pulled off a piece of meat.

“Needs more pepper.”

Wilson turned, scowling. “No, it doesn’t. And besides, I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“Oooh, cranky today, are we?” That chicken did need something, though. Maybe not pepper. Definitely more spice, though. “What, your boss complain about you sticking your nose into every cancer patient’s files in the database?”

For the last two months Wilson had been working in a private, general practice. He claimed to enjoy the lack of drama and urgent cases. But House had the suspicion he was getting bored.

“I… never, House!” Wilson spluttered. “You know I wouldn’t do that!”

“More’s the pity. Could keep you entertained for a couple of hours. But it probably wouldn’t endear you to the other so-called doctors.”

Wilson sighed and apparently decided not to take that particular bait this time. House needed to find new ways of teasing him about his professional decline.

Instead, Wilson changed the topic completely.

“Do you want me to drive you to the airport?”

“No.”

“Okay. Have you booked a cab?”

“Nope.” House kept picking at the chicken. Maybe it didn’t need more spice after all.

Wilson looked a bit confused. “So… how…?”

“Ever thought about how you’d fly across the country without a valid ID, Wilson?”

“Umm… no. So, how _are_ you going to fly back to New Jersey?”

“I’m not.”

A moment’s silence.

“Okay.”

Wilson turned back to his chopping board, picked up a zucchini and started slicing it into rounds.

House knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to play him at his own game. But Wilson was no match for him. It was only a matter of time. He figured he had about five minutes to put his purchases away before Wilson would cave.

He had just unpacked and dumped everything in his wardrobe when Wilson flung open the door. House bit back a grin and turned around.

Wilson stood there, in his stripy apron, knife in hand, and said nothing.

“You look like a character from a Stephen King movie. Who are you about to carve up after you’re done with the chicken?”

Wilson glared at him.

“I know what you’re doing.”

House pulled an innocent face. “And what would that be?”

“You’re playing your usual games. But you know what? This isn’t a game. This is your life. What’s left of it. You’re going back to recover what you lost. No, let me rephrase that. What you _threw away_ for me. I do appreciate it, even if I’ve never said. This is serious. It’s not a joke, so stop treating it like one.”

House sat on his bed and waited for him to continue.

“So.” Wilson took a deep breath. “How are you getting to New Jersey?”

It was then that House realized he hadn’t closed the wardrobe. Everything would be on full view. And it wasn’t exactly subtle. If Wilson wasn’t so upset – and why _was_ he so upset? – he would have spotted it the moment he came in.

A second later Wilson’s eyes went wide.

“Oh, you’ve _got_ to be kidding me! A helmet and boots? You can’t be serious, House. You bought a motorcycle?”

“Not yet. Made a down payment, though.”

Wilson slowly shook his head. “One, do you know how old you are? Two, have you noticed how you’re having more trouble in the mornings lately? Three, do you even know how long it’ll take you to drive across the whole continent? And… four… four… _are you out of your mind_?!”

Wilson could be so damn perceptive sometimes. And, as always, he had to stick his nose where it didn’t belong.

“Four questions? That’s all you’ve got?” House felt anger boil up. “You think I haven’t noticed? I notice every damn morning. And every night when I go to bed. And every stupid fucking hour in between. It’s kinda hard to forget if you’re in pain every damn hour of the day. It’s _my_ life, _my_ decision. And yes, I’ve done the math, thank you. I’ve worked out a route with plenty of stops. And I’ll phone you every day, Mommy, so you don’t need to worry.”

He got up – slower than he would’ve liked – brushed past Wilson and left him standing in the doorway.

 

* * *

 

Not unexpectedly, House ignored the table Wilson had set and chose to eat in front of the TV.

Wilson decided to overlook the snub, took his own dinner and went to join him on the couch.

“I could come with you. Visit my parents,” he suggested after a moment. 

House sighed.

“Wilson, you don’t want to see your parents. You’ve been sick for over two years. You almost croaked twice. They never made an appearance. You don’t _want_ to see your parents.”

He chewed and looked at Wilson for a moment. “You also said you never wanted to sit on a motorbike ever again.”

House had a point. Wilson had never been a fan of motorbikes. And yet, they held a strange appeal. House loved them for a reason. Wilson found the speed scary and, at the same time, liberating. He had wanted that exhilaration at some point. Needed it, even. But he had slowly grown to hate the reality of sitting on a bike every single day, for more hours than he would normally sit in his office chair.

“You’re right. I couldn’t manage a trip like that. So I wonder how could you?”

House snorted. “Niiiice. So now your ex-cancer body is in better condition than mine? You forget that I actually know how to ride a bike. I’ve been doing this for years. You’re not exactly in mint condition yourself. Think I haven’t noticed that your neuropathy never completely went away? Whenever the weather turns bad, you take twice as long to button your coat, and you suddenly get very careful around the kitchen.”

Wilson felt his face flush. There was no keeping secrets from House. There were times when his fingers still went numb. It was annoying, but at least it wasn’t painful any longer.

“You figured it out then. Bravo. The great diagnostician, still at the top of his game. But at least I know my limitations. I don’t pretend I’m 30 anymore.” Wilson knew he would have to stop sounding testy if he wanted House to listen. “House, please. What if you get stuck halfway?”

“Well, if I crap out along the way, at least you’ll be happy that you were right,” House shot back. He stood and put his empty plate on the table with so much force Wilson was surprised it didn’t crack. “At least I don’t act like I’m dead yet. Not like you, with your safe, boring job. Anything to avoid living a little, eh?”

The anger felt like fire rising up from his stomach. Wilson took a few deep breaths to calm down before he could say something they would both regret later.

“Yeah, maybe that’s because I _did_ almost die more than once over the last two years, as you pointed out yourself a moment ago. Maybe I don’t want to risk my life willfully after I almost lost it. Maybe I want to hang on to what I have. Maybe I’m not suicidal.”

For a moment, Wilson thought he had gone too far and House would launch into a tirade about how Wilson always knew better and would be vindicated if House didn’t make it. But he just stood there, leaning on his cane, and looked at Wilson.     

He held House’s stare. He knew how dangerous it could be to completely let your guard down with House, so he usually avoided it at all costs. But this time he didn’t care. If House could read what was really going on, so be it.

After a moment House nodded and said calmly, “Unless it turns out to be a total piece of shit, I’m buying the bike tomorrow. I’ll leave on Wednesday.”

Wilson silently watched him disappear into his room.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The bike did not turn out to be a piece of shit. On the contrary. With only two previous owners, the Honda Gold Wing F6B House had found online was in great condition: a perfectly acceptable touring bike at a very acceptable price.

Except it wasn't what he really wanted. What he wanted was something sleek and fast. He hadn't even admitted it to himself until then, but what he really wanted was his old Honda back. He wanted loud and obvious, not safe and comfortable.

But what he wanted wasn't what he needed, he told himself, as he took the last corner on his test ride and pulled into the back lot where the seller was waiting for him.

"You like her?"

House put his hand on the body of the bike. It was still warm. Yeah, he liked her. And maybe, for once in his life, liking and the safe option would be enough. It didn't need to be full-blown love. This bike was supposed to get him across the country. She was no beauty, but she looked well able for the job.

"Yeah, I like her."

The seller wasn't a pushover in the haggling department, but he did throw in a few modifications House would've had to pay good money for elsewhere. He was a mechanic with a good eye for customers and suggested a few minor changes to make the bike more comfortable for House.

House left the lot with less money in his pocket and a little flutter in his stomach. He would pick up the bike the following afternoon.

 

* * *

 

Wilson chose not to be there for House's departure.

' _I'll leave on Wednesday'_ had been pretty vague, so House wasn't surprised when the apartment was silent by the time he got up. Goodbyes weren't his thing anyway, and it was clear that Wilson didn't approve of his chosen mode of transport.

So he had a shower, packed a backpack with the essentials – including what he hoped would be enough Vicodin to carry him across a whole continent – and decided to have a quick breakfast despite his impatience to get on the road.

His search for something edible turned up a stack of pancakes in the oven, its temperature set to keep them warm. And in the fridge, a package with a post-it with LUNCH written on it sat prominently displayed on the top shelf.

Wilson could be gloriously predictable. House grinned and stashed the lunch package in his backpack.

He doused the pancakes with plenty of maple syrup and washed them down with a big mug of coffee – also courtesy of Wilson.

 

* * *

 

The first day was really only a half day as House spent it getting used to his new ride.

He found the excitement he'd been craving after leaving the city traffic behind. While he couldn't risk a traffic stop and a closer look at his ID, he nevertheless opened the throttle. The resulting flutter in the pit of his stomach when he eased the bike towards her limits brought a smile to his face. The bike did go fast, and for a while he thought he'd picked the best of both worlds – this was like flying but without a plane. He stuck to smaller and quieter roads to get a better feel for her handling before returning to the route he had mapped out for his trip.

His extensive online research had been time well spent; the Gold Wing F6B was a great touring bike. Wilson would have liked it simply because it wasn't a 'wild ride' like House's old Fireblade. House had chosen it over the regular Gold Wing for just that - its comfort.

But that didn't change the fact that sitting in the same position for a long time was hell on his leg. As much as he had yearned for the freedom of the open road, he hadn't been on a motorbike in almost two years, and his body let him know in no uncertain terms that he wasn't getting any younger.

So when he spotted a sign for Medical Lake coming up, he took the hint and pulled in for the night.

He had a long, hot shower, took a couple of Vicodin and then stretched out on a bed which, while not quite long enough, was pretty comfortable for a motel bed. He and Wilson had come across their share of creaky or uncomfortable beds – and often both at the same time - after leaving Princeton, so House knew it paid to check the room and the bed before booking in at the desk.

For a moment he considered texting Wilson but then decided to let him stew for a while. If he wanted to sulk, he could sulk. Besides, he was too tired for an interrogation.

House dozed until he woke from his own stomach's growling. Wilson's lunch – a fat chicken sandwich and two brownies which he had eaten in a lay-by – was all he'd had that day. For a moment he considered driving back to a steakhouse he had passed a couple of miles before he had pulled in for the day. But then his tiredness and sore muscles won, and he picked one of the many leaflets stacked so helpfully on what some corporate motel chain designer had obviously thought would pass as a desk and phoned for pizza delivery.

Half an hour after he had eaten the last slice, he was fast asleep, with the TV still running.

 

* * *

 

Day two went a little better, but not by much. While he was now more familiar with the bike's handling and covered more miles, he just couldn't settle into the ride. His right shoulder was sore, and his leg was even worse. But that was only part of the story.

It was almost lunchtime when he caught himself checking for Wilson in the wing mirrors for the third time that day. Annoyed with himself, he pulled over.

He had always kept an eye on Wilson when they had been on the road. At first, it had been because Wilson clearly wasn't used to riding a motorcycle and struggled to keep up with House. Later, it had been because symptoms like coughing and shortness of breath had started to appear, and Wilson dying in a crash had not been part of House's plan.

He used the stop to stretch his leg, worked some kinks out of his shoulders and took a couple of Vicodin.

If he kept up this tempo, it'd be Christmas by the time he made it to New Jersey. He would have to get into cruising mode and start crunching miles or he'd never make it to his appointment with Stacy's lawyer.

 _My lawyer_ , he mentally corrected himself.

The fact that he even needed one bothered him. He had told Stacy he'd sort this out by himself, but she wouldn't have any of it.

"You have no idea what'll happen, Greg. Being your own counsel isn't going to work this time. The last time you wanted to go to prison – I gather this time that's not the case?"

He hated to admit it, but she was right. Getting a lawyer after crashing into Cuddy's house would've meant talking. And not talking had been easier. Looking back, he had also felt he deserved to do time for what he had done. Some form of penance had been called for. For once in his life, the easier option had also been the right option.

This time was very different. And a lot less clear. There was no telling how things would turn out, lawyer or no lawyer. According to Stacy, it would depend on whether they could avoid this going to trial and if other parties aside from House would be heard.

That last part was a worry in its own. Who would they ask? Wilson? Probably. Cuddy? Maybe. His old team? Who knew. Wilson could usually be relied on to say nothing that would damage House's position. Cuddy was not quite such a dead cert but also a pretty safe bet, especially since they had more or less made their peace with each other while Wilson had been in hospital. His old team, and especially Foreman, were the great unknowns.

House looked at his bike, parked in the shade of a billboard advising drivers of the National Forest ahead. The engine ticked quietly while it was cooling down. It sounded steady and reliable. Maybe steady and reliable was just what he needed, heading towards an uncertain future.

He secured the strap on his helmet and winced when he swung his leg over the Honda. He would be doing this for another few days at least; on the bike, off the bike and on again – he had calculated he should be able to make the trip in about a week if he stuck to 8 hours driving each day with a couple of decent breaks in between. It was a reasonable calculation, he felt. With actual driving time between 42 to 45 hours, a week was generous.

He had hoped to be able to put in a day of rest in Chicago and spend some time at the Music Exchange. A man could never have enough guitars, especially not if they were vintage. He and Wilson had stopped off in Chicago on their trip, but House had passed on a visit that time. Things were different now. He could provide a shipping address in case he decided to spend not only time but also money in this store. And he knew that once he walked through those holy doors, he would probably come out with his pockets empty.

Depending on the weather on the way, he had two options, and he would have to make a decision soon. He could go south, maybe even as far south as Kansas City and then on to St. Louis, or keep going and hope to hit Chicago without freezing to death or getting into a storm. But even further south, bad weather was still a possibility.

Whichever route he ended up taking, he couldn't overlook the fact that his leg liked travelling even less now than it did two years ago. He might not have enough time for a stopover in Chicago - or anywhere else.

And he definitely wouldn't if he didn't get on the road. He had planned to make it to Missoula or a little further by the end of the day, leaving Idaho behind.

He put the Honda into gear, checked his mirrors and pulled back into the flow of traffic.


	4. Chapter 4

Day three began with rain. He had been lucky with the weather so far, even if it was colder than he had expected, but it really caught up with him that morning.

Once he had checked out at the front desk, he decided a leisurely breakfast was in order and planned to wait out the rain that way. This was still National Park area, so the diner next door was full of tourists equally unwilling to leave the shelter it provided. The place was packed, and service was slow. Servers tried to keep up with orders while stepping around backpacks and rain gear on the floor. It took ten minutes to get a refill, and when his food finally arrived, the eggs were scrambled instead of fried.

"What's this," he asked his server who had already turned away.

"Breakfast," she replied tersely and walked off to deliver another plate to another table.

"You know, I'd rather eat what I actually ordered," he called across the aisle. "But it's fine, I'm sure items I didn't order won't show up on the check."

"They will if you eat them," she shot back before disappearing behind the counter to pick up more orders.

The guy at his table sniggered into his coffee.

House would've preferred to eat his breakfast alone and in silence, but since this place was a hive of activity and noise, with no free tables when he arrived, he joined the person he thought least likely to start a conversation. Hiding behind a newspaper, a mug of coffee and an empty plate in front of him, he took him for a fellow traveler, maybe a trucker, who would be on his way soon. He had been wrong. Although, technically, laughing behind a newspaper wasn't the same as talking, so maybe he could just ignore it.

Except that the guy now tried to cover up his laughter by coughing. Very funny.

House tucked in. The eggs weren't bad at all, and he didn't really care whether they were fried or scrambled or boiled, as long as there was plenty of bacon to go with them. And his portion was definitely generous.

The theatrical coughing continued.

Enough was enough.

"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you're laughing about the cartoon of the day in that rag there."

On the other side of the table, the newspaper was lowered slowly and revealed a grinning face framed by dark hair and a slightly shaggy beard.

"I'm laughing because the same girl brought me beans I didn't order. When I pointed that out, she said she'd be happy to take my plate away and put in a new order for me. I didn't take her up on the offer because I didn't fancy waiting another hour to get something to eat. You were lucky; you got yours in half that time. I wouldn't say another word if I were you."

The newspaper went back up.

House tried to place the accent and ended up at something British with a hint of Aussie. It wasn't from this continent, that was for sure, and maybe not even from this hemisphere. The man was in his early forties and probably a tourist. In jeans and a t-shirt, he wasn't dressed like a businessman. Besides, businessmen wouldn't hang around in a packed diner next to the Interstate. Reaching for the maple syrup, House discreetly checked for a backpack under the table and found none. What he did spot was a pair of clean but well-worn cowboy boots. So not a tourist after all. There were no car keys in sight. Not a trucker then either.

"So, what's your verdict?"

The newspaper hadn't moved.

House really wasn't in the mood for a chat. He'd had trouble getting out of bed this morning, his morning dose of Vicodin had taken forever to kick in, and even now his leg was still achy. The weather was bad, he hadn't even made it a quarter of the way yet, he needed more coffee and the waitress kept ignoring him. He had not come here to make friends.

"Does it matter?"

"To me?" The guy sounded bored. "Not really."

House's cellphone chirped. He didn't need to look to know it was Wilson. Third day on the road, and this was the third text. He guessed Wilson sent them on his way to work. Since parking was a problem at his workplace, he often took the bus and said he enjoyed having time to read the paper before starting work. House considered not replying, but experience told him that Wilson would keep texting until he received a satisfactory reply.

_'_ _You got on the road OK this morning? How was breakfast?'_

House sighed.

_'_ _Trying to drive here, stop worrying. Go vaccinate some bawling babies.'_

He pushed his phone back into his pocket and continued with his breakfast.

"Your wife worried you got held up by the bad weather?" The newspaper rustled.

His mouth full with surprisingly decent homemade bread, House replied, "Something like that."

"You got far to get home?"

"Depends how you look at it." House had no intention of telling this guy his life story.

Finally, The Beard reappeared. Paper folded and put down on his seat, he drank the rest of his coffee and said, "You're not exactly the chatty type, are you?"

House replied around a mouthful of bacon and eggs. "I guess where you come from, people are really quick on the uptake."

The Beard grinned.

"You apparently come from a place where people love to try and figure others out but then get cranky when others do the same." He grabbed his coat from the next seat and said, "Safe travels, wherever you're headed."

House nodded and watched him make his way to pay at the counter. It was the smart option. People had probably grown old and had grandchildren in this place while waiting for the waitress to bring the check.

He finished his breakfast. By the time he had managed to get another refill, the rain had stopped and things outside looked a bit brighter. He wasn't the only one who had noticed, and the diner was a lot quieter. He could even hear the radio playing now; it was tuned to some local station he had never heard of. And he wouldn't care if he never heard it again because this wasn't what he considered suitable background music for his breakfast. Time to leave.

The next time the waitress looked in his direction he waved her over, but she was busy clearing tables and just shrugged and pointed at the counter.

For a moment he considered simply walking out, but in his biking gear he wasn't exactly inconspicuous. And he definitely didn't need the local law enforcement on his heels.

Helmet in one hand, cane in the other and backpack over his shoulder, he paid at the counter and then made his way out to his bike.

He was glad he had invested in proper clothing. Back in Princeton, he hadn't used his motorbike in the winter, so he'd never needed gloves or biking pants. Jeans did the job just fine. But out here he would've frozen to death by now without the right clothes. And it wasn't even winter anymore. He looked up at the sky. There was probably more rain on the way. He would have to start listening to local radio after all, he decided, if he didn't want to risk getting into a proper storm.

While he drove, he didn't have to think. Or at least that's how it used to be. When he used to take his Fireblade out of town, there was no space for thinking. The bike and the road demanded his full attention. That had been just the way he liked it because once he started thinking, his mind went places he didn't want it to go, to places he couldn't control. Besides, when he was working, his brain was in high gear all day, all the time. He needed space, a calm space. Taking his bike on the road opened up that space for him.

That's how it used to be.

In hindsight, it had been one of the reasons why he'd chosen the bike over a car and even more so over the train. He wanted that clear headspace again, needed it.

But things were different now. After a couple of days on the road, he had tuned in to the bike's sound, its rhythm and its kinks. Driving along seemingly endless roads, he felt his brain disengage from the task of controlling the bike. This bike didn't need controlling as his old one had, so his mind went off on its own.

It went ahead to New Jersey, to Stacy and what awaited him there. He started to play through all the possible scenarios and outcomes. Most of them weren't good.

But he also went back; back to that burning building, back to the night Gregory House had died in Princeton, New Jersey. And he saw all the options he'd had. He had been stupid - stupid and impulsive. There had been other ways out. He'd been too blind and too proud to see them.

Well, he'd have to take one of those options now to fix the mess he had gotten himself into.


	5. Chapter 5

Spending all day on the road should have had House sleeping like a log at night. He tried to pull in before nightfall - daylight made it easier to pick out a decent motel. By the time he had checked in and made it to his room, he was usually so exhausted he could barely move.

But at that point, both moving and not moving were equally problematic. His leg didn't like the long periods on the bike one bit, no matter how often he pulled over for a short stop during the day. Once he sat down on his bed in the evening, he often found himself unable to get up again, even though he knew slow movement and a hot shower were what he needed.

So he learned to head for the bathroom the moment after he had dropped off his backpack and motorcycle gear. The rooms he stayed in rarely had a tub, so he took a long, hot shower, hoping to calm down his leg. It worked, but not for long.

By the time he'd gone back to bed, his thigh was screaming at him again. In the absence of any other means to distract himself, he spent his nights listening to the same tracks on his iPod over and over again, alternating with dozing to late night TV. His Vicodin consumption went up; so much so that he started to worry about running out before he got to the end of this trip.

Wilson had been right, he was too old and too damn crippled for this. He should've taken the train.

* * *

House wasn't the only one who had trouble sleeping. Back in Seattle, Wilson barely slept at all.

With House gone, the apartment was blissfully quiet after work, nobody played music annoyingly late into the night, and nobody left the TV blaring and fell asleep on the couch.

It was too quiet to sleep.

After a sleepless first night and a bad day at work, he went into House's room the second night and put a random record on the turntable. He ended up sitting down on House's unmade bed to read an old medical journal House had picked up somewhere. When he was finally tired enough to sleep he just pulled the comforter over himself and went to sleep right there.

* * *

Saturday afternoon saw House heading towards Billings, Montana, where he would have to make a decision. Should he risk further cold weather or take the longer route and turn south where he was a little less likely to encounter bad weather?

It hadn't occurred to him before but, in a way, he was now making his and Wilson's past journey in reverse. Two years ago, they had taken the smaller roads and usually stopped off in towns away from the Interstate. At the time he'd had no idea he would be going eastward again because he hadn't planned that far ahead.

He hadn't planned at all, full stop. He had acted on impulse, and now it was time to clean up the mess. It was his own mess, and for once he had nobody else to blame.

After eight hours on the road with an aching leg, he decided he might as well flip a coin; heads for the northern route and tails for going south. So he postponed the decision until the next day, hoping that the weather in the morning would point him in the right direction.

The parking lot of his chosen motel looked full, and for a moment House considered continuing for another while, hoping to find a quieter spot for the night. But most places would probably be busy on a Saturday night, so he took the room he was offered. At least the bed looked decent.

After a long, hot shower, he changed into fresh clothes. He would have to do laundry at some stage. But not tonight and not here. He stuffed his old t-shirt on top of all the other unwashed clothes in his backpack and dumped it back on the floor.

A quick look at the mini bar and the selection of takeout flyers by the bed made him question his decision to stop here. Saturday night and all that was on offer was cheap but expensive booze and takeout pizza. Not that he was averse to either. But he'd had pizza twice since leaving Seattle, Chinese once. All meals had been less than impressive, barely even acceptable. He'd have to empty the whole mini bar of dwarf-sized bottles to be even a little buzzed and able to sleep.

So he took two Vicodin, shrugged into his jacket, grabbed his cane and went back out to reception.

"Hey, where can I get some good home-cooked food around here?" he asked the girl behind the desk. Where was the cute redhead who had checked him in less than an hour ago? This girl looked barely old enough to drive.

She looked up from her magazine. "Home-cooked? Like Mac-n-cheese?"

House sighed. "I was thinking more along the lines of a good steak. And a drink."

Some music would be nice too, but he thought it better not to ask. He didn't want to get his hopes up. Considering her age and taste in food, he didn't want to know what she'd suggest.

The girl thought for a while. How hard could this be?

"Come on, you live around here, right?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Okay. Is there a bar around here where they serve food?"

She suddenly smiled. "Yeah! Uncle Bob's."

"Great. Uncle Bob's." Didn't sound like much, but apparently there wasn't much choice. "And where can I find this place?"

According to her directions, it was only 'ten minutes down the road', and he should be able to walk there. After a day of sitting on the motorbike, stretching his legs a little sounded like a good idea. Besides, if he was going to have a couple of drinks, it was best to leave the bike where it was.

The girl's ten minutes were definitely a teenager's ten minutes – on two healthy legs and with a head full of dreams. He had neither, so it took him a good quarter of an hour along the side of the road to finally spot a flashing neon sign advertising _Food & Drink – Live Music Sat Nite_.

By the time House reached the door, the ten-minute trip had turned into half an hour. His leg had started giving off warning signals about halfway, but he had ignored it. He was here now; he might as well see what was on offer. Maybe he could hitch a ride back later.

No wonder this place hadn't been on the girl's radar. It was dark, no-frills, folk music was playing from a fake-retro jukebox in the corner, and the clientele was less than youthful.

By now, his leg wasn't just giving subtle signals anymore, a whole bunch of emergency flares were going up, so he went straight to a bar stool instead of making his way to one of the tables further back.

He hooked his cane over edge of the bar, took a few deep breaths, rubbed his thigh muscles into submission and considered taking another Vicodin. But he was trying to make the supply last, so he decided to wait until he'd had some food. Maybe a drink would do for now.

He signaled the bartender. "Bourbon, when you're ready."

"On my way out back for supplies, Kate will take care of you in a moment," the elderly man shouted and disappeared.

So much for getting a drink fast.

Kate, when she appeared, turned out to be the pretty redhead who had checked him in at the motel a couple of hours ago. She managed to look even prettier now. The low-cut top, dangly earrings and extra eyeliner definitely had something to do with that.

"Do you work everywhere in this town? If I go for pancakes tomorrow morning, will you be behind the counter at the local diner, too?"

She laughed.

"Maybe. I've been known to cover a shift or two." She put his drink in front of him. "Bob's my uncle. No joke. He really is my uncle. I'm helping out because his regular guy called in sick."

Emergency cover or not, the sight of her behind the bar improved House's mood considerably. Too bad she had a ring on her finger.

He took a sip of his drink, nodded appreciatively and said, "I've been told you serve a good steak. Got a menu?"

"No menu. The only thing on it would be steak. And fries. Veg is whatever's fresh. You can have onion rings if you like."

House passed on the veg but since the likelihood of him sharing his bed with anyone later was minuscule, he opted for a side order of onion rings.

The bourbon on top of the Vicodin he had taken earlier was doing its job – the pain in his leg began to subside into the usual background noise, so he ordered a beer while he waited for his food.

"You here for the music?" asked Kate when she placed the bottle before him.

"Music?"

She pointed over her shoulder.

House craned his neck and saw a black and white poster featuring a sketch of a lap slide guitar, announcing _'For one night only – Matt Davies. Sat 9 pm'_.

"Hadn't planned to. Is he any good?" He didn't dare hope. "Poster doesn't say much. Guy could do with better PR."

Kate laughed. "Oh, he's good all right. He doesn't need PR. Word gets around. This place will be packed, trust me."

She made it sound like it was worth hanging around for.

His food took a while to arrive. But when it did come, it was exactly what House had hoped for – a big, juicy steak that took up half the plate, plus a generous portion of fries and crispy onion rings. It was as tasty as it looked, and for the first time in a few days he actually felt something close to content. Now all he needed was for this Matt Davies guy to make some decent music, and he'd go to bed happy.

He drank the last of his beer, signaled Kate to bring him another and considered moving to a table with a more comfortable chair.


	6. Chapter 6

Kate had been right; by 9 o'clock the place was buzzing.

House had moved to a table close to the stage. He had propped his leg up on a second chair. The other chairs had gone to whoever asked so nobody would actually end up sitting down with him and try to make small talk. He was here to relax and enjoy some music, not make new friends.

Finally, the lights were dimmed and the noise died down; the entertainment portion of his evening was about to start.

Matt Davies didn't stand on ceremony. He hopped up on the stage, beer in one hand, grinned in House's direction and picked up one of three guitars someone had set up for him earlier.

That grin was no coincidence, seeing as House was probably the only person in the audience he recognized. Matt Davies was 'The Beard' from the day before. Musician had not been on House's list of possible professions for the man.

By the time the first song was over, House had recovered enough from his surprise to listen to the introduction.

"Good evening, folks, and thanks for turning up. My name is Matt Davies. Some of you have heard me before, because I've been touring around this area for a couple of weeks. If you're one of those people – thanks for coming back, I obviously did something right the first time you heard me. By now you'll have noticed that I don't hail from here. I'm from Wales, but I won't bore you with folk songs from home." There was some laughter at that. "Sorry to disappoint the gentleman in the back. What I'll play for you tonight are some of my own songs, which you won't recognize, and others which you will. The next one is about an item of immaculate confection."

And with that he launched into an up-tempo, lap slide version of Tom Waits' _Chocolate Jesus_.

_Well it's got to be a chocolate Jesus_

_Make me feel good inside_

_Got to be a chocolate Jesus_

_Keep me satisfied_

This was either an inspired or a stupid choice for one of the first songs when there was no way Davies could've gotten a feel for his audience yet. Judging by the applause, House decided to go with inspired and hoped it would set the tone for the rest of the evening.

It did.

For the next half hour or so House listened intently. This guy had chops. His hands were a joy to watch as they flew across the guitar. Sitting so close to the stage had been a good choice – House didn't miss a thing.

This was exactly what he had needed – good food, a few drinks and good music. He began to relax and tapped along on the table.

By the time Davies announced he would play one more song and then take a break, House had signaled to Kate for more beer. When the singer stepped off the stage, House raised a bottle.

Davies came over and took the offered drink. House pushed the extra chair over for Davies to sit on.

"Thanks. Didn't think I'd see you again. You tell your wife you'll be home late?"

House grinned. "Don't worry. Nobody's going to report me missing any time soon."

"Perfect. By the way, I'm Matt. In case you hadn't guessed already."

"Figures." House hesitated for a second, but then blew caution to the wind. Hell, he was on his way to claim his life back. Why not start here. "Greg."

Davies nodded. "Nice to meet you. Again."

They sat in silence for a while. Finally, House could no longer contain his curiosity.

"Is that a Weissenborn you have up there?"

Davies smiled. "Yup. Want to take a look?"

"Yeah, okay," House shrugged casually.

"Nice collection," he conceded after taking a closer look at the guitars lined up on the stage.

"You should see my shed at home." Davies looked at him for a moment and then asked, "You play?"

House nodded. "A little."

"Well, help yourself then."

House hesitated for a second and then picked up the Weissenborn he had spotted earlier. It was a beautiful dark color.

"It's koa wood, native to Hawaii," explained Davies. "Go ahead and play if you like."

House shook his head. "I'm not the lap-style type."

He couldn't play like that even if he wanted to. So he put the Weissenborn back and took a black, big-bodied acoustic instead.

He set his cane aside and sat down on the edge of the stage, carefully resting the guitar on his good leg. The instrument felt good in his hands, comfortable even. He picked a short tune.

"Sweet sound."

Davies nodded. "She's one of my favorites for live gigs."

House thought for a moment and then began to play. He was keenly aware of Davies watching and listening. It had been a while since he had played with anyone but Wilson as an audience. When he finished, the other man sat down next to him.

"That didn't sound like 'a little'. That's an unusual song to play when trying out a guitar. Blind Willie Johnson. It's actually part of my set. You a blues fan?"

House picked a few more notes in reply. "Blues and all its relations."

"Interesting way of saying you're a musician." Davies paused and looked at House appraisingly. Finally, he said, "want to sit in on a song or two?"

The temptation to say no and leave was strong. But he liked how the guitar felt in his hands. He also liked the way this guy played.

House stopped picking. "What makes you think this isn't the only song I've got? This could end badly."

"For you maybe," Davies laughed. "It'll only make me look good if you mess up. Besides, if you play _Nobody's Fault But Mine_ when trying out a guitar no way is that the only song you know."

House began to play _Big Rock Candy Mountain_.

"And this isn't what people play to make an impression either." Davies finished his beer. "But I get the feeling you're not actually out to impress anyone, right?"

House didn't reply, but launched into Bob Marley's _Redemption Song_ instead.

"Good, that's settled then."

Even though he wasn't quite sure what he had gotten himself into, House was reluctant to pull out. This man was a good musician, perhaps even a great one, and he hadn't played with anyone in a long time. Noodling around by yourself was one thing, but playing with someone else was something else entirely. There was no way he could let this chance pass him by.

"I've found a traveling companion while you were all guzzling beer at the bar," Davies said by means of introduction after the break. "It's always handy to have a wingman, so you've got someone to blame if things don't go as planned."

After the laughs had died down, they started the second set off with _Nobody's Fault But Mine_.

This version was faster than what House was used to playing, but he found his place quickly. Seated a little behind Davies and to the side, he also let the man have the limelight musically. He had no intention of stealing anyone's thunder, even if he'd been able to. And it was clear that he wouldn't have stood a chance because Matt Davies wasn't just an excellent player technically. He didn't just copy a song, he understood it, felt it and made it his own.

During the applause, Davies turned around to House and said, "Stay if you want and tag along whenever you feel like it."

House recognized this as the high praise it was. He had passed a test. No musician would voluntarily share the stage with anyone he felt wasn't up to the job. And yet, nobody would care if he just went back to his table, had another beer and enjoyed the rest of the gig.

Except, he'd be itching to play along the entire time.

Realizing the audience had gone quiet, he patted the guitar and gave Davies a quick nod. "What's next?"

Next were a couple of Davies's own songs during which House was content to provide a backdrop. At times he echoed Davies, at times he just offered a steady rhythm as accompaniment.

In truth, Davies needed no backup and no wingman. The man was a great musician, perfectly capable of holding the audience's attention on his own. And his playing was beautiful, House had recognized that right away. All this made the invitation to stay and play along even better.

A jamming session with someone was fun, but sitting on a stage with a professional musician was on a whole different level.

And House lapped it up. Time flew and when Davies announced the last song, House felt like he could have gone on for hours yet.

"And now it's time for me, and for you too, to go home and go to bed. Whether it's your own bed is up to you," said Davies. "Thank you very much for turning up tonight, I hope you've had fun. I, or maybe I should say we, have one last song for you. It's practically made to be the last song at a gig – and I should know, because I wrote it. This is _Can't Help Moving_."

House had enjoyed feeling his way into new music, picking up strands, playing and teasing them out in the background.

He'd had fun.

But that last song was, for him, the highlight of the evening. As much as it was Davies's song, about halfway through he took a step back, continued a regular rhythm and by doing so, created an opening for House to pick up the melody and take it wherever he wanted.

It took House by surprise, and yet, it shouldn't have. He'd had a feel for this song the moment Davies hit the first note. He had never heard it before, and yet he felt as if that blues note had opened a door. He walked right through into a very familiar place.

So he didn't hesitate when Davies made the offer; he stepped in, took the song and played with it. The tune felt completely at home in his hands; it tickled his fingers and rolled and jumped and breathed. It was alive.

He forgot he was on a stage, playing with a stranger, to strangers. He didn't think about what lay ahead, and he didn't think about what was behind him.

He didn't think at all.

And he loved it.

When he was done, he passed the lead back to Davies who took the song on to its intended ending.

The applause felt like a rude awakening from a dream.

When Davies stood up and packed away his guitar House stayed seated as there was no way he could have gotten up right away. His leg was cramping because he hadn't moved in so long. He was stuck until he could relieve the cramp a little.

By the time he had managed to put the guitar carefully back into its case, the spotlights had been turned off, Davies had gone to talk to a few people, and House was able to make his way off the stage without anyone noticing how stiff and sore he was.

He needed to pay his tab, and he'd also have another bourbon so he could get back to the motel. A bourbon and a couple of Vicodin. The House way of ending a great evening, he thought grimly.

Kate shook her head when he asked to pay and pushed a card towards him. "All settled by the gent over there."

At the other end of the bar, surrounded by people, Davies gave a quick wave.

House pocketed the card and raised his glass in reply.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To listen to the first and the last song House and Matt Davies play together, look up these tracks on YouTube: 
> 
> Nobody’s Fault But Mine - https://youtu.be/rXP74hcCMUs
> 
> Can’t Help Moving - https://youtu.be/vG5lh2MGt8o


	7. Chapter 7

Mornings were never fun for House. But waking up the morning after the gig was even worse than usual. He shouldn't have had that last bourbon.

He also should have called for a cab instead of thinking he'd be able to walk all the way back to the motel. But somehow, between music, food and booze, his brain had forgotten how long it had taken him to get to Bob's and that walking back slightly intoxicated was not a good idea. He had been lucky he hadn't ended up in a ditch.

Hangovers were never a walk in the park. They weren't too bad if you could spend the day on the couch, dozing and watching mindless TV. They were just about manageable if you could sit behind your desk and let a team of minions do your work for the day. They weren't quite as easy to handle when you had to be awake and alert enough to drive an 800-pound motorcycle a couple of hundred miles.

But he had no choice, he needed to get on the road sooner rather than later.

House turned on the TV to a regional channel – it was time he checked out the weather and made a decision which route he was going to take.

The news didn't really filter through, though. Vicodin would take care of his headache, but he knew he'd be left with that cottony feeling in his head for the rest of the day, no matter what. There was no pill to get rid of that yet.

The one thing he didn't want to get rid of was the music in his head.

_There ain't no silver_

_You know there ain't no gold_

_Gonna mend that broken heart_

_Gonna ease the trouble on my soul_

_Yeah there ain't no morphine_

_There ain't no sweet cocaine_

_But there ain't no morphine_

_Ain't no sweet cocaine_

_Gonna mend that broken heart_

_Gonna bring my baby back to me again_

He was still stuck on the last song he had played with Davies.

Morphine wasn't what he needed now, although it was probably the only thing that would tackle the deep-seated pain he felt this morning. It would fog his head up even more.

Strong, black coffee was what he needed for now. In the long term, he needed something else entirely, but this wasn't the time to think about that.

He had to get moving, aching leg and hangover or not.

_I can't help moving_

_Can't help moving on_

_When I get that feeling I get up and I get gone_

* * *

 

After a less than healthy breakfast, consisting mostly of coffee and almost incinerated bacon, and still humming last night's tunes under his breath, House finally decided to head south, in the hope for better weather. He would also forget Chicago; he just wanted this trip to be over. Once all this was sorted, he could book a weekend in Chicago, spend a whole day at the Music Exchange. He would have some fun; maybe pick an interesting gig or two for the evening. Last night had awakened something. He hadn't had such a good time in years. But now he could, once he got things sorted back east. He would have the time and opportunity to do things, maybe travel a little.

Maybe he'd even take Wilson.

After days on the road and hundreds of miles, he was still waiting for the adrenaline to kick in again. He vividly remembered the exhilaration, the rush he had felt every single time he opened the throttle on his old bike. There had been times when he'd entered a flow state, disconnected from everything that had occupied his mind that day. He wanted to get back into that state now, but it didn't happen. His mind kept tossing thoughts and arguments around, options and problems. The annoying part was that there was no solution as long as he was on the road. A solution could only be found once he arrived and started talking to people.

He realized he wouldn't find that state again, not on this trip anyway. This wasn't about disconnecting because he wasn't running away from anything. He was moving forward so that he could move back into his life, get back to what he was good at.

Once he had that figured out, the trip became easier. It was a means to an end, so it was best to get it over with as quickly and as safely as possible. There was no point in taking stupid risks just to get there faster.

He shut his worries away because he had thought about every possibility, looked at things from every angle and played through every possible variation. There were only two possible outcomes and nothing he could do now. He would have to wait until he got there to see which one it would be.

The southern route was the longer but also the better one because the weather was somewhat milder. A couple of days of no rain and slightly higher temperatures eased the ache in his leg a little. And it made him careless.

He stopped checking the weather forecast in the mornings because he was eager to get on the road.

Which was probably why things happened the way they happened.

Just outside Casper, Wyoming, he unexpectedly got caught in a hailstorm. It came fast, and it came heavy. The hailstones were the size of toy marbles, and by the time he had managed to find shelter under an overpass, his Honda had collected quite a few dents. So had his helmet, and his hands hurt, even though the gloves had protected him somewhat.

He wasn't alone under the overpass; a handful of people had squeezed in with him. Everyone else was in cars, though, there were no other bikers about. At least he would escape the fake camaraderie those kinds of situations usually enforced.

The temperature had dropped several degrees, and the sky looked almost black. After a while, House began to envy the people in cars; at least they had heating and a comfortable place to sit and wait out the bad weather.

And since he wasn't about to ask if he could join any of them in their warm cocoon, it didn't take long and he'd had enough of waiting. The hail had stopped, all that remained was some cold drizzle. He could handle that.

It took less than ten minutes of driving for him to realize that his impatience had once again not served him well. The hailstones had accumulated on the road, and the continuing rain turned them into treacherous mush.

So he gave up and took the next turn-off - only to lose control on a slippery patch in the bend. He had already been going slow, so the damage wasn't great but by the time he had pulled himself and the bike off the gravel on the shoulder, he was aching all over. The bike had collected more scratches, and his jacket and trousers were torn in a couple of places.

Luckily, the damage to the bike was only cosmetic, so he was able to make his way to the next cluster of houses.

"You okay," asked the man behind the counter at the coffee shop House chose to take shelter in.

"Peachy," muttered House and went straight to the washroom. He had already run a mental check when he first crashed and knew none of his injuries was serious. But he needed at least a quick visual check to confirm.

He took off the jacket and surveyed the damage in front of a tiny mirror. There were scrapes on his right elbow and knee, and his jacket and pants were torn in corresponding places. A nice collection of bruises had started to develop, and he would be hurting soon. He took two Vicodin and inspected the wound on his elbow. He would be able to clean the one on his knee once he made it to a hotel and had access to a shower and clean towels. But his elbow looked messy and would be trickier to clean.

He had his back to the door, trying to see in the mirror how far the damage went up the back of his arm, when the owner came in.

"Ouch, that looks bad. My wife's still at her practice across the road. You should get that checked out."

"No, thanks."

"Hey, she's a nurse, not the local vet. Doesn't look like it's serious, but you should get that seen to, it could get infected."

House was about to tell the guy to go to hell when he realized that if he got this cleaned by someone else, he wouldn't have to contort himself in some motel room later. He had time on his hands anyway since the weather didn't look like it was going to change anytime soon. There would be no harm in checking out the local sick bay.

So he ended up sitting in a cramped exam room, staring at the smiley and not so smiley faces on the ubiquitous pain chart.

Mrs. Nurse was friendly but business-like, nothing like her nosey parker husband. She cleaned his arm thoroughly and efficiently. When she was done, she nodded at his leg and said, "How bad is the knee? Do you want me to take a look?"

House grinned about as convincingly as smiley face no 2 and held up his cane. "No need. I had this before I crashed the bike."

He could have used some extra painkillers but he knew she wouldn't give him anything without a thorough check-up of his leg. And that was the last thing he needed right now. So he thanked her, half-heartedly offered payment, which she refused – "I stitch up the local youth for free about twice a week, don't see how this is any different" – and then left.

Outside, the rain had stopped, and House took a moment to survey the main street before him. A one-horse town, two at best, with a car repair shop at one end of the street, the coffee shop-slash-diner at the other and a bar and something optimistically called ' _SuperValu_ ' in between. It was quiet and boring.

His shiny but slightly damaged motorbike, parked in front of the coffee shop, stood out like a sore thumb.

House zipped up his jacket and limped off towards his means of transport, trying his best to ignore the increasing pain in his right leg. He wasn't very successful.

About halfway, he stopped.

He couldn't face another hour on the bike. His knee was stiffening up fast, his elbow smarted, and he was too fucking old for this. Realistically, he would need at least a day or two to rest up and be able to continue his way safely. Anything else was madness; a madness even he recognized as such.

His look was drawn down the street to the repair shop.

No harm in checking out if they were buying.

Two hours later, he sat down at a diner table and ordered a burger with extra fries, extra crispy. He was now blessed with extra cash, but minus a motorbike.

"Go easy on the green stuff, unless it's a chili," he called to the owner who had taken his order. "Oh, and how bad are the bus connections from here to Denver?"

He figured he could make his way from there to New Jersey by train. Ironically, after he had decided to give the city a miss, he would end up traveling via Chicago anyway.

The connections weren't great, but there was a daily bus to Denver that would get him there on time for the train to Chicago. From there he would be able to take one of several connections out to New Jersey.

Figuring all this out took the owner, a girl who served the coffee, a teacher and his iPad at the next table, and an elderly man whose suggestions were of absolutely no help at all.

If House had needed a reminder why life in a small town was not for him, this was it.


	8. Chapter 8

There she was.

He saw her when the train pulled into Short Hills, long before she saw him.

She had not missed a beat when he had changed plans the day before and asked her to pick him up at the station. She had readily agreed, no questions asked, and there she was - straight from the office. She looked good.

She spotted him when he climbed down the step from the train, his right knee giving him as much trouble as the hole above it.

"Greg!"

"Stacy." He waited for her to reach him. "Don't look so shocked. Dead people often look a bit rough around the edges. They also smell a bit iffy." He had been on various trains for the last two days and was certain he looked like a bum by now. His torn jacket probably only completed the look.

For a moment, she simply looked him up and down. She seemed torn between joy, and shock at his appearance. Finally, she decided he was who he claimed to be and hugged him tight.

His elbow protested but the rest of him didn't. On the contrary. His hand settled on her hip as if that was its rightful place.

"I thought you were dead," she said when she finally let go.

"That was the whole idea."

She took his small holdall – the contents of the bike's hard bags had to go somewhere - and threaded her right arm through his left. He knew what she was doing but didn't resist. _Still fits_ , he thought and was a little surprised to feel no regret.

They slowly made their way through the throng of commuters towards the car park.

"Did you have a death wish?" she wanted to know. Wilson had asked the same thing.

"What, then or now?" he asked jokingly. No, he didn't have a death wish. Not this time anyway. He still wasn't quite sure about that other time.

"Now. James called and told me you bought a motorbike. He worries, you know." She squeezed his arm a little. "What happened? Did you crash? Badly?"

House heard the worry behind the official inquisition and remembered how she used to do this, half a lifetime ago, it seemed. The more formal her voice when she asked questions, the more concerned she was.

"It's not bad. I'm just a little stiff from sitting on that damn train for a week." The lie came easily. It had certainly felt like a week and had been as bad as he had imagined when he had planned this whole journey back in Seattle. He had tried to keep his leg elevated during the trip, but couldn't occupy two seats during rush hour. So he had only been able to glare at whoever dared to sit down across from him.

Once they were in her car, Stacy just sat there and looked straight ahead for a while.

"You forget how to drive? I'm a little rusty, but I'm sure I could manage if you let me," House joked.

She didn't even turn her head to look at him.

"I was going to book a hotel for you. But Mark put his foot down and insisted you stay in our guest room. He said we owe you. _He_ owes you."

He had not expected this. He could see the tension in her shoulders and knew she was waiting for him to say something. The problem was, he didn't know what. So he didn't say anything.

"He doesn't know about… that we…" She still looked out of the window instead of at him.

"I never expected you to tell him."

Her head finally turned. "I was close a couple of times."

"That's just stupid. For a lawyer you're too honest for your own good. Telling him doesn't serve any purpose except relieving your own conscience." He shook his head and tried to ignore the feeling of resentment rising inside. "So what's this? Are you saying you're taking me home with you but I have to promise not to tell Mark about how close you came to leaving him? That I have to be a good boy? Keep quiet about having sex with you years ago?"

"No, I… yes." She looked hurt. "I don't know!"

His hand was on the door opener. He would give anything to be able to just get out and leave now. But he couldn't.

"Look, I've come here to sort my life out. I'll be out of your hair as soon as possible. And you can tell Mark that it was my choice to stay at a hotel. He'll think it's because I don't like him. I can live with that, and he'll get over it."

"No." She paused. "I'm sorry." She looked away again and shook her head. "That's not how I wanted this to go."

It wasn't how he had wanted it to go either. After Stacy's initial shock at hearing his voice on the phone, their phone conversations had been very business-like. But the look on her face when she had spotted him at the station should have tipped him off that things wouldn't go smoothly. There had been something there, some doubt maybe, something he hadn't quite figured out yet.

House sighed and leaned his head back. "I didn't exactly plan this either."

"Start over?"

He chuckled. That's what she used to say after a fight - way back when.

"Fine by me."

She smiled, nodded and finally started the car.

"It's great to see you, Greg. I mean it. I thought I'd lost you."

"You and hundreds of other people. I bet not everyone was as sorry as you."

She laughed. "No, probably not. I imagine some of the people you've pissed off over the years were probably quite relieved."

They must have been. He hadn't wasted a single thought on them. Or on anyone else. And he didn't want to start now.

House pushed his seat back, stretched his legs as far as possible and settled in. He hadn't slept in the last 24 hours. The heating in the car, the comfortable seat and the fact that he knew Stacy was a good driver were all making it hard for him to stay awake.

"It shouldn't take us much longer than half an hour to get home," Stacy announced after leaving the car park. "It's hard to tell at this time of the day."

"Mmm…"

Relaxed and with his eyes almost closed, he was able to observe Stacy who was too busy manoeuvring the car through what went for rush hour traffic around here to notice that he wasn't actually asleep.

She had aged hardly at all since the last time he'd seen her. There might be a pound or two more on her hips as he'd discovered earlier but it suited her. She looked great. He knew that she always lost weight when she got stressed, so the little extra weight spoke volumes.

But at the moment, she clearly had lots on her mind. She looked distracted as she kept rolling her shoulders to ease out some tension whenever traffic stopped them for a while. He knew that coming back into her life was bound to cause some upheaval. There wasn't much he could do about that. As it was, Stacy was his best chance. But whatever impact he would have in the short term, it looked like things were going well for her. Moving back to Short Hills, and back with Mark, had been good for her.

"Hey, Greg," Stacy's hand was on his shoulder. "We're here, time to wake up. I've got a more comfortable bed for you inside."

"Wasn't sleeping…"

She and Mark still lived in the same house. Some renovations had been made, he was sure but he was too tired to pay attention, and Stacy was too smart to point them out to him.

He was also too tired to respond to Mark's joking. The man shook his hand when they arrived and offered him coffee 'or something stronger', but House wasn't in the mood for chit chat or drinks. He didn't care if he offended the host or not. All he wanted right now was a long, hot shower – or, better yet, a bath – and then sleep for a year.

In some feeble attempt to give the two men a chance to connect, Stacy said she needed to change and let Mark show their guest to his room.

House was tired but he wasn't so out of it that he didn't notice the other man's slight limp when he followed him down a long, narrow hallway.

"When did you stop going to physio?"

"When my therapist told me I was done," Mark countered and stopped. "I won't run any marathons, but then I never did, so I don't miss it much."

"Should've known you'd do things by the book," House snorted.

"I limp a little when I get tired, that's all. I'm fine, thanks to you." He looked at House. "Seriously, thank you."

House shook his head. "Only did my job."

Mark hesitated as if he considered saying something else. But he let the moment pass. Instead, he turned around and opened the door to a large, bright room.

"This used to be the den. We turned it into a bedroom-cum-office for Stacy when she's working late. There's a small bathroom, too. The train from Chicago is a nightmare – I think you'll be glad we chose a tub over a shower stall."

Several more explanations about the features of the room and an invitation to dinner later, and House let out a sigh of relief and dropped onto the bed.


	9. Chapter 9

House woke up to the smell of coffee.

It took him a moment to figure out where he was.

He stretched a little and winced at the pain in his leg. The long soak in the bath last night, a couple of glasses of wine with dinner and general exhaustion after the long trip had helped him sleep through the night, but things were still what they were. Thankfully he had been alert enough to leave his Vicodin in easy reach on the nightstand when he went to bed. They would take a while to kick in, so he leaned back and closed his eyes again.

A knock on the door woke him a short while later.

Stacy entered with a mug of coffee in her hand. One look at her and House knew she was in work mode already – dressed for the office, with her professional face on.

Fully aware that it was futile, he still couldn't resist teasing her a little.

"Come join me for breakfast," he said playfully and lifted the corner of his comforter. He hadn't brought any pajamas.

Stacy laughed but didn't look away. "No thanks, not in a million years. I'm over you, Greg."

The hell she was. The look on her face when she saw him get off the train had said different. But he was okay with playing pretend. Mark deserved that much. Besides, he had promised Stacy to be nice. Whatever that meant. For now, it meant not coming on to her too much. It wouldn't be easy, but he'd manage. As long as she got out of his room pronto.

"Don't you have a job to go to? Give a guy some privacy."

She turned to leave, then said, "don't forget your appointment with Lorimer at 11."

"What kind of a name is Lorimer?" he complained.

"The kind of name your lawyer would have. You don't have to like him. Just talk to him. If anyone can get you out of this mess, it's him." She looked at him for a moment as if she wanted to add something. But she must have thought better of it. "Go and talk to him, Greg."

She closed the door on her way out.

* * *

Lorimer was a stocky, well-groomed man with an extremely good looking assistant, a big office full of glossy, dark wood furniture and a liking for expensive clothes. He clearly didn't look pleased with House's presence in his office. House imagined what the lawyer must think of him in his usual jeans, Nike's, linen shirt and blue jacket. Even though he had made something of an effort today he was the only part in Lorimer's elegant, colour-coordinated office that didn't cost a small fortune or came with a designer label. But then, taking on the case of Greg House probably carried a hefty price tag of a different nature for J. P. Lorimer.

"So, how do you know Stacy?"

"The only reason why I'm even talking to you is so I don't have to answer that question." Lorimer looked down at the papers on his desk, but not before House had spotted a slight tic near Lorimer's left eye. The man might be a good lawyer but he'd make a lousy poker player.

"Oho, someone's got a secret. A big, fat, juicy one at that, I bet."

Lorimer looked up, now openly annoyed. "I don't have to answer that question from you or anyone else. Besides, you're the one here who has to answer a few questions. Correction - make that a _lot_ of questions. And the ones on my list here are only the start." He held up a sheet of paper. "If you're lucky, depending on your answers, someone else will get to ask you even more questions. And that someone will be the DA…"

"…who also doesn't have any connection to Stacy Warner, I presume," House finished the sentence.

"Correct." Lorimer leaned back in his chair. "Well, I can't speak for the DA, only for myself."

Clearly, neither Stacy nor the lawyer wanted him to know what their connection was. He had tried to push Stacy earlier but to no avail. If she didn't want to talk about something, she wouldn't, he knew that from experience.

"Care to tell me how _you_ know Stacy?" The lawyer interrupted House's thoughts.

So Stacy hadn't told him anything. Interesting. "Not particularly. Let's just say, it has no bearing on what you're supposed to do for me."

"And what exactly is it you want me to do for you?"

House was sure that Stacy had given Lorimer at least a quick run-down of what had happened two years ago. But she, like everyone else – and that included Wilson – wasn't privy to any details. Until now, his death had been nobody's business but his own.

"You're supposed to help me resurrect Gregory House."

"Hm." Lorimer made a note on the papers in front of him. House usually had no problem reading upside down, but he knew there was no point in even trying to decipher this – the office was so big that the visitor's chair was placed half a mile from the desk. "I noticed you didn't add the M.D. behind your name just now. How invested are you in a continued practice of your profession?"

It was an interesting question; one House had asked himself on the way here. Getting his name back included his title; his licence was a different matter. His recertification would've been due last year, but seeing as Gregory House was dead, his name had quite likely been struck off the register by all concerned bodies. He hadn't expected Lorimer to be able to deal with both issues.

"Not very," he answered honestly. "Not anymore."

He didn't need to practice; he wouldn't miss the constraints of a hospital or of running his own department. Over the last couple of weeks, several ideas had formed in his mind. He didn't need a medical licence for most of them.

Lorimer scribbled another note and then said, "Okay, let's start at the beginning. Why did you die?"

House honestly couldn't recall every detail leading up to the burning building collapsing around him, and he told Lorimer even less than what he could actually remember. The lawyer had said it himself - he only needed to know enough to decide whether it was worth calling in a favour from the DA or not.

* * *

"So, how did it go?"

They were having dinner at home. They being Stacy, Mark and House. The three of them together. It should have been a tense affair, but to House's surprise it wasn't. There was a big pot of pasta sauce on the stove and several bottles of wine on the counter. Stacy had changed from successful lawyer into happy and funny Stacy just by pulling her hair back and changing into jeans and a t-shirt. This was a Stacy House hadn't seen in decades, and the transformation right there in front of him brought back a lot of good memories. Something in his stomach gave a little flutter but he told it to be quiet.

"He's pretty smart for a lawyer," House said.

With a little too much force, Mark put a bowl of steaming pasta on the table.

House winked at him. "Clearly not as smart as your wife, though. Lorimer wouldn't even have talked to me without her say so."

Stacy laughed. "Well, he's definitely smart enough to know what's good for him."

"You'll never tell me what you've got on him, will you?" He had to try one more time.

"Secrets of the trade. I'd be stupid to tell you," Stacy replied. "I might as well take out a full page ad in the Bar Association journal."

"If she doesn't want to talk about something, she won't talk. Took me a while to make my peace with that." Mark echoed some of House's thoughts from earlier.

House was privy to at least one of those secrets, but he wondered what else she hadn't told Mark. And, by extrapolation, what she hadn't told him. He was too tired to work on that now, though. He had slept soundly last night but it would take him a little longer to get over the long ride here, bruises and all. He had taken a taxi back here after the meeting with Lorimer and had spent an hour soaking his assorted injuries in the bath. That and the wine he'd already had leading up to dinner had mellowed him to a point where he thought he could just melt back into his chair. Small talk was a chore he despised at the best of times, and it seemed completely beyond him now. So he mostly just watched Stacy and Mark.

Their talk flowed freely, and there was a little good-natured teasing here and there. They seemed comfortable around each other.

There was no other word for it.

They seemed happy.


	10. Chapter 10

She had lied.

_I'm over you, Greg._

The lie had come easy, like a reflex. _It was self-defense, your honour._

And yet, it was past midnight, Mark had long gone to bed, and she was still awake, reading up on a case for the following day. Correction, make that trying to read up. She had just gone through the same page for the third time and retained nothing.

The reason for her lack of concentration was just on the other side of this wall, right behind the couch she was currently stretched out on.

The news of Greg's death had been a massive shock. And yet, when James had told her what little he knew of the circumstances, she couldn't help but think that an end like this somehow suited Greg. Sudden, a little mysterious and, perhaps, not entirely accidental.

Stacy had smiled her way through his funeral service. It had been years since they had seen each other then, and they hadn't parted in the best of ways, with him outright rejecting her. And yet, aside from James and Blythe, she was probably the only one who really felt the loss.

She knew full well that, had their parting all those years ago been a breakup like so many others, due to falling out of love or falling in love with someone else, she would have long been over Greg House and wouldn't have wasted another thought on him. His death would have caused nothing more than a minor ripple in her life, if at all.

But through the decision for the surgery on his leg, she had bound herself to him, or him to her, she wasn't entirely sure anymore. She had messed up his life and probably saved it at the same time. It all depended on how you looked at it, and she had chosen her viewpoint long ago, just as Greg had chosen his. Even without the continuing attraction – she might have lied to him, but she wasn't going to lie to herself – there would've always remained that connection of her being responsible for his life, as it was.

His death should've cut that connection.

And yet, here he was. As alive as ever, if a little the worse for wear.

His first phone call a few weeks ago had left her reeling for days. She had claimed to be in over her head with a particularly tricky situation at work, but when she had to tell Mark that Greg was very much alive, and not only that, but he was going to stay with them for a while, she was sure he had been able to put two and two together.

But after he'd heard the news her husband had, calm as ever, just said that they better set up the den for a guest then.

"He can stay at a hotel, Mark." She hadn't been sure then and still wasn't now, whether she had said it for her own protection or for Mark's. Now, a day after seeing him get off that train, she understood that she would never be sure where Greg House was concerned.

In the end, she knew it was easier to give in, have Greg stay at her house and just keep herself in check.

Just.

Stacy finally closed her file. There was no point pretending she would get any work done tonight.

She could hear the muted sounds of the TV in the next room. Either Greg was still up or he had fallen asleep with the TV on.

She hoped her knock would be quiet enough not to wake him if he was asleep and loud enough for him to hear if he wasn't.

"Yeah."

He was still dressed and stretched out on his bed, a pillow under his head and another under his legs. Some court drama was playing on the TV in the corner.

"I'm taking a crash course to prepare for my big day."

She took a step into the room and closed the door.

"Can't sleep?" His amusement at the stupidity of her question was obvious, so she felt the need to elaborate. "You seemed pretty tired at dinner."

Indeed, he had been uncharacteristically quiet.

In reply, Greg muted the TV, sat up slowly and patted the bed to his left.

She took a couple of steps but didn't follow his invitation.

From up close she saw the tightness in his face. Take plenty of food and wine, add some Vicodin, and he should've been fast asleep by now. The vial by his bed was half-empty.

She finally made a decision and sat down in the chair across from him.

"How bad is it?"

He shrugged. "I'll live."

She wasn't sure if this was a particularly nasty barb or if he was trying to sound casual to stop her asking more questions. Both were equally likely. But she wouldn't be drawn into an argument tonight, especially not this one, so she went with option two.

"Anything I can do?" How many times had she asked this question? As if she would ever get an honest answer.

His eyes lit up in mock delight.

"Oh, I thought you'd never ask!" He grinned suggestively. "Are you offering yourself as a distraction?"

She couldn't help but laugh. "I'm offering you _a_ distraction. That's it."

Greg sighed. "You're a rotten tease, just like all the other girls. First you offer, then you pull out."

And just like that, they'd had moved on from the original topic. Which was just what he had wanted. Some things would never change even if they both grew as old as the hills.

"So, what's the plan?" Neither of them could sleep. He needed a distraction, and she was genuinely curious. Two birds, one stone.

"We have a plan?"

"With Lorimer."

"Oh, _that_ plan." Greg sounded as if he had been thinking of something else entirely. "He is trying to get the DA to agree to a meeting. I'm waiting for Lorimer to call. Although he probably won't want to get his hands dirty dialling my number, so I bet anything he'll get his uber-cute and stylish PA to call."

That sounded just like J. P. Lorimer. "Did he say when?"

Greg shook his head. "Depends on what he's got on the DA and how scared he is. Or how scared they both are."

Another accurate assessment.

"Okay. So we wait." She had the feeling they wouldn't have to wait all that long. This wasn't something anyone would want to drag out, least of all Lorimer and the DA. But even a day would be too long for Greg. He wasn't exactly blessed with a lot of patience.

"Actually, the DA is a woman. Her name is Rosalyn Mercer. I'm surprised Lorimer went all the way up to her. I thought he'd go for the assistant. He seems more approachable."

Greg grinned. "Approachable being lawyer speak for dirty?"

She shrugged. "I wouldn't call him dirty. Let's say… a little more susceptible to blackmail."

"So you're saying the DA _isn't_ dirty? She can't be squeaky clean, that's for sure, or Lorimer wouldn't be convinced he'd get her to deal with this."

"He definitely told you it would be the DA?"

It was a stupid question. She'd earned the look Greg gave her.

"Maybe I can charm the DA into making everything go away?"

If only. "You're not that charming, and she's not that kind of woman."

"What kind of woman?"

"The type who'd be susceptible to your bad boy charm."

"Oh, she's not like you then?"

"Actually, I'd say she's a lot like me. Not fond of boys who don't get the message."

"Oh, I get the message. But there's some interference. It's like you hope I'll give you a reason to change your mind."

No, not hope. But she had learned by now that she'd always have a weak spot for this man. And one of the reasons why was that he knew perfectly well how to find other people's weaknesses. Including her own.

Meanwhile, his hand had moved to his thigh and gripped it tightly. She'd bet anything that he wasn't even aware of it.

Stacy wasn't sure how to handle this. In the past, he had either ignored any attempts at being looked after or outright railed at her.

"I could run you a hot bath?" After staring at his white knuckles for another minute, she finally dared to make a suggestion.

"Won't help, already tried it. It's not that kind of pain."

"So is this how it's going to be?" Maybe it was time to deal with this after all. She steeled herself. "I suggest something that might help and you shoot it down? I'll never be able to suggest the right thing then."

She could see Greg tensing further. Tough. It was late, she was tired, and she was sick of playing games and pussy-footing around.

"You suggest something that has a chance of actually helping, I'll gladly take you up on it."

It was pretty clear where this was going but Stacy knew she had no real choice. They would always come back to this.

"Except I don't know what could actually help." She kept her eyes locked on him. "Because I didn't hang around long enough to learn what does help and what doesn't."

He just lifted an eyebrow in response. _See. You got there all by yourself._

She took a deep breath. Held it for a moment. Things were so simple. And yet, so complicated.

"You'll always just sit there and blame me, right? You'll never forgive me for what I did. You'll never understand."

He snorted. "Understanding and forgiving are two completely different concepts."

"Yeah," she nodded slowly. "And that's why this will never be resolved. If you understand, then you know that I never had a choice…"

"There's _always_ a choice!" His eyes burned holes right into her.

"Yes, there is. And I made mine. I had to choose between letting you die and letting you live. Like this. In pain. It wasn't really a choice then because both options meant the end of us."

"When did you get your medical degree? You don't know I would've died. It wasn't your decision to make. You should've left me to it."

"And should've watched you die?"

She could see how much effort it took him to stay calm.

"Who says I would've died? But yes, you should've. It was _my_ choice. Mine. Not yours. You were selfish."

In a roundabout way she had been selfish, he was right. If this was her only sin… "Yes, if you look at it like that, I was selfish. I was so selfish I gave up on us so you could live."

He laughed. "Don't make yourself out to be some sort of martyr."

"I made a decision. You've made hundreds of decisions for your patients and hoped for the best."

"But you weren't my doctor. It wasn't your choice. Besides, you didn't just make a decision. You waited until I wasn't in a position to object anymore. You went behind my back and reversed my decision." He took a moment to take a deep breath and slowly rubbed his leg. Then he added quietly, "I trusted you."

This was what it came down to. Not the decision itself. Not the pain. Not the surgery. She had broken his trust.

She finally sat down on the bed next to him and put her hand on top of his where it had stopped massaging his leg. She'd always loved his hands. "And for that, I'm sorry. I did what I thought was best."

He looked up at her then, straight into her eyes. "Yeah, don't we all."


	11. Chapter 11

One moment can change a person's life. Sometimes, all it boils down to is a second.

Life can turn on a dime, is what people say.

His own life had changed that way more than once. In hindsight, it had often seemed so obvious. And yet, at the precise moment when things changed, he hadn't had a notion of what was about to happen.

This wasn't one of those moments.

This was a crossroads he had seen from far away. He had traveled towards it, expecting to have some form of choice. Whether that was true remained to be seen. But either way, his life after today would be very different.

The call had come yesterday afternoon. It had taken Lorimer two days to work his magic. As predicted, Lorimer's PA had been the messenger.

"8.30 am, Mr. House. Please be on time."

It was early for him. Probably not early for the DA or any other regular person. She would want to get this over with before her real work day began.

The location didn't mean anything to him. As it turned out, it didn't mean anything to the DA either. This was rented office space. A desk, a phone, a couple of chairs. An anonymous space, no fear of bumping into familiar faces, no interruptions, no connections.

Smart.

His chair was uncomfortable. The edge of the seat dug painfully into the back of his thigh before they had even gotten through the introductions. House wondered if this was designed on purpose so people would spend less time in this place. It wouldn't work for him. He'd stay as long as it took.

He had no other choice.

This time, there would be no white knight in the shape of Wilson or Cuddy to bail him out. He would have to sit this out or admit defeat and walk away - back into Sam Aldersson's half-life.

House shifted his weight and hoped the DA's schedule was full and this wasn't her day off. The sooner this was over, the better.

Rosalyn Mercer was younger than he had expected, maybe six or seven years his junior. She was slim, with short graying hair in a well-maintained cut that probably required a visit to some top-notch salon every four weeks. Her eyes were almost the same color as her hair – steel. She wore dark green slacks, medium heels and an expensive blouse. The cut was simple, but the buttons gave it away. House guessed her to be 5'10" without the heels. A tall woman who oozed self-confidence. She had pulled her laptop and files out of her well-worn bag in one smooth motion and slapped them on the desk.

Every inch a pro.

Then she introduced herself and offered him a glass of water. He declined.

"I'd rather get this over with."

"Interesting. So would I." She settled down behind the desk. "I've made some inquiries, talked to a few people. And I read up on your case. Or _cases_ , plural. Actually…" she flipped through a few pages, "this is a mess."

"There are some things you've probably heard about me that quite possibly could be true."

She looked up from her files. A no-nonsense look. She wasn't going to take any bullshit from him, Stacy had been right.

"Did you go into that warehouse to die, Dr. House?"

Straight to the heart of the matter. He had thought about this – on and off – for two years. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"It's got to do with the fact that I'm trying to understand what actually happened." She looked straight at him. "So, did you go in there to die?"

House didn't want to revisit that time. But he had no choice.

"No. I went there on a search."

"For what?"

Good question.

"Something. Anything. I didn't go in there with a death wish." He hesitated. "I was desperate, not suicidal."

He had never even admitted this to himself. He had been desperate for weeks before that trip to the warehouse. Losing Wilson had felt like a death sentence. Losing him while he sat in prison twiddling his thumbs would have been a thousand times worse. Desperate, yes. But he hadn't wanted to die.

"Do you want to elaborate?"

"No. I don't _want_ to. But I guess I have to for you to understand, so you can go and give me my life back."

Rosalyn Mercer smiled. It was a nice smile. But it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"This guy – my patient…"

"Oliver Marsden."

"… yeah, Oliver. Whatever. He was… beyond help. But he was happy. He was sure, so sure. He knew…"

"He knew what?"

She really needed to stop interrupting him. "That was for me to find out."

The DA sighed. "You might as well be speaking in tongues, Dr. House."

How could anyone understand if he didn't understand it fully himself?

"He didn't care. About anything. He was happy."

"And that's what you wanted? To not care?"

Two bloody years and the answer was that simple after all. "Yes."

The DA nodded. "Okay, I think I get this. Your best friend was dying, and you thought you were going to end up alone and in prison for some stupid prank."

"Put like this, it sounds simple." He remembered it had been anything but at the time.

The DA shrugged as if to say, is anything ever as simple as it looks in hindsight?

"How did the fire start?"

"I don't know."

She didn't believe him. "You don't know?"

"I was out of it. He was out of it. And he was dead. I don't know."

She looked at a photocopy of something in her folder. "Investigations have found that sparks from a small malfunctioning heater of indeterminate origin might have fallen on some bedding or blankets on either the second or the third floor. On which floor were you and Oliver, Dr. House?"

"I don't know."

"Were there other people at the warehouse when you arrived?"

He was probably close to maxing out on his allowed 'I don't knows', so he tried to remember. Some shadows, voices. But nothing distinct.

"Not sure. Maybe. Oliver knew the place. He knew where he was going. Where _we_ were going. Maybe he had been there before. I remember hearing voices when we arrived."

"How did you get there?"

That one was easy. "Cab. Some guy from Croatia drove us."

"You remember the driver was Croatian but you don't know which floor you were on?"

House shrugged. "The brain is funny in what it retains in times of stress. Just ask my last boss."

"I did. He said the same thing."

This was unexpected. "You've spoken to Foreman?"

"Did you think I'd go into this unprepared? That I'd just sit here and nod and let you off even if you had killed someone in that building before setting it on fire? Just because J. P. Lorimer asks me to?"

"Well, I didn't think he would just _ask_. And I imagine there were good reasons why you acquiesced to his… request."

Rosalyn Mercer smiled one of those not entirely nice smiles. "Indeed, there are. But neither are there as many nor are they as big as Mr. Lorimer would like to think."

This changed things considerably. His getting off the hook was no longer a given. In fact, it had never been. Stacy and Lorimer couldn't exactly dictate to the DA. He was still at the mercy of this woman.

"But let's get on with things. I have better things to do with my time. And I presume you don't exactly enjoy sitting here either."

"Fine with me. I'd prefer to stand for a while, though." He had to get up and move around or he'd end up getting a cramp that would take hours to resolve.

The DA threw him a questioning look but nodded eventually. "Do whatever you need to do. I'm afraid this office isn't exactly laid out for comfort."

It wasn't comfort he wanted. He wanted resolution. And quick.

So he got up and started to pace the room.

"Okay, let's move on then. What did you do once you were in the warehouse?"

They had shot up. For a second House wondered if admitting to using illegal drugs would make things worse for him.

Two steps to the door. Five to the left. Turn.

How much worse could things get?

"We shot up. Used heroin," he finally said.

"Where did it come from?"

Good question. "I don't know."

"Dr. House," the DA sighed. "You're a smart man. A lot smarter than most. If you don't know, you may use your brain. Deductive reasoning is allowed. This is not a trial."

"Oliver had it… no, he didn't have it in the hospital, we would've known." His team had searched him after someone had smuggled in drugs for him. "He must've picked it up either on the way or in the warehouse. We didn't stop on the way, so he got it after we arrived."

The DA nodded for him to continue.

"The elevator didn't work. The place was abandoned. He was a lot faster up the stairs than I was. He could've gotten it on his way up, from a stash he had there. Or from someone else."

House stopped pacing. He now stood right in front of the DA's desk. It had a dent in the front panel as if it had been kicked. Maybe someone had been impatient or upset with the person behind the desk.

"Okay, good. Where were you both when you… shot up?"

If only his memory weren't so full of holes.

"On the floor… there were some old blankets. They smelled bad. Musty." He hadn't cared. He had wanted what Oliver knew, what Oliver felt.

"Were you sitting together on one blanket?"

He knew where she was heading.

"Separate blankets next to each other. I think. It's a little hazy."

The DA nodded as if she understood. But how could she?

"Okay." She made a note in her files. "Did you each shoot up on your own?"

House took another step to the right. Four more to the wall.

"You do know what I'm asking, right?"

Oh yes, he knew. The thing was, he didn't know the answer. He turned when he reached the wall.

"I can't remember."

"Again, Dr. House, you're not helping yourself. Use your apparently so remarkable brain. Did you let Oliver Marsden inject you with heroin? Did you help him?"

Did he? Would there have been any need? The guy was an addict, for pity's sake. He didn't need help.

"No."

"No, what?"

Four steps to the desk. He stopped. Looked up.

"No, I didn't need help injecting. Neither of us did. I'm a doctor. He was an addict. He had probably handled a syringe as many times as I had."

No way would he have let the guy near his arm with a needle. And now that he remembered that part, he also remembered that he made sure to be the first to use the syringe. He suddenly recalled Oliver's knowing look, the grin on his face when House had insisted on going first.

"You're sure about this part, Dr. House?"

Damn sure. "Yes."

"Good."

He hadn't been aware of it, but until now he'd had doubts about his part in Oliver's death. Things were a lot clearer now.

"And when did you discover that Oliver was dead?"

"When I woke up." When I came to after shooting up heroin. Damn.

"Did you try to resuscitate him?"

House shook his head. "No point. He'd been dead a while when I woke up."

Considering that Oliver had experience with heroin, they had used the same stuff and House hadn't overdosed, it was likely that Oliver had chosen to go out with a bang.

The DA gave him a quizzical look. "What are you thinking?"

"Not sure… I mean, the guy _knew_ heroin. He was a pro. We used the same stuff. Even accounting for me being extra cautious when I calculated my dose – and I don't think I was - it's unlikely he accidentally overdosed."

"What are you saying, Dr. House?"

House shrugged. She could draw her own conclusions.

"Are you saying he committed suicide?"

"It's impossible to know for sure. He thought he was dying. So did I, for a while. I never figured out what was really wrong with him. Some of the possible diagnoses would've been fatal and killed him either pretty fast or very slowly. When we left, I was under the impression he would return with me after… our trip. I expected to solve this case later but I never did."

"So you were, what? Disappointed when you found he was dead?"

He gave up on pretense and evasion. "Pretty much."

She looked as if she was going to ask more but then thought better of it. Whoever she had spoken to had probably told her he didn't care much for people, that solving the case was his priority.

"And then what?"

"Then I noticed the fire."

The DA nodded and opened the second file. House tried to read the contents but there were no labels, no headers, only photocopies with small print he couldn't decipher.

She took her time flipping through some pages, checked her watch and finally looked up.

"I think we both could do with a break. I'll see you back here in an hour."

And just like that, he'd been dismissed.

House hesitated. He didn't like this. But this was her show. His chances were slim enough; he would be mad to jeopardize everything now.

So he left.

Outside in the corridor, he paused.

What was he supposed to do now?


	12. Chapter 12

The call came when Wilson was just about to leave the house. He didn't recognize the number but the area code was as familiar as his own date of birth. Princeton.

But it wasn't House. The lady on the line introduced herself as Rosalyn Mercer, DA, and asked if he had time to talk. He didn't really as he was on his way to work but since this had to be about House, he knew he had to make time.

He asked for five minutes to phone in at work and reschedule his appointments.

For some strange reason, he felt nervous waiting for the DA to call back. He told himself that he had nothing to worry about.

_But this isn't about me._

"Doctor Wilson, thank you for taking the time to talk to me," said the DA a short while later. "I'm looking into Doctor House's case. I take it you're willing to answer a few questions."

Wilson settled down on the couch.

"I gather that you have known Dr. House and have been his friend for years."

"Yes, we've known each other for more than fourteen years now, and we worked together for most of that time." Had it really been that long?

"Until you both left your last place of employment in Princeton two years ago?"

"That's right. Two years and seven months, to be exact." This, however, seemed like yesterday.

"Why is your memory so precise here?"

Wilson thought it best to assume the DA knew nothing. "Because of why we left. I left because I was dying, and Dr. House left because he was dead. Or so he wanted people to believe."

"Please elaborate. This isn't a court hearing, feel free to tell your side of the story."

Wilson was relieved to hear House wasn't on trial. "In May that year I was diagnosed with a stage II thymoma. I'm an oncologist, I'm very familiar with this diagnosis, its progression and possible outlook. I refused treatment…"

"Sorry for interrupting – why?"

He squirmed a little.

"Because the outcome often isn't positive, and the treatment is tough. No cancer is a walk in the park, but every oncologist knows there are the easier ones and the tough ones. While mine wasn't a hopeless case, the prospects weren't good. I had seen enough patients go through this. And not many came out the other end smiling, if you know what I mean."

The DA paused for a moment. Then she asked, "How did your family and friends react?"

"I didn't tell my family. Not then. And my friends… well, Dr. House didn't react well."

"Please, explain."

"He told me I was an idiot," Wilson said, still vividly remembering House's initial reaction. "He tried to persuade and manipulate me. He was his usual self, just… just more so." He clearly saw this now with hindsight.

"More how?" the DA asked.

Wilson thought for a moment. "It's hard to explain to someone who doesn't know him. He even went as far as telling me that he needed me, didn't know what to do without me. As far as House goes, that was probably as close to the truth as you'll get."

"How did you react?"

This clearly hadn't been his finest hour. "I… I told him that I wouldn't let him make my illness about his needs, that everything had always been about him. That this was about me, for once."

"How did your other friends react? Your family?"

"At that point, I hadn't informed my family yet. My colleagues at the hospital knew, but none of them openly voiced an opinion. They weren't privy to the details of my diagnosis."

"But Dr. House was?" She waited for Wilson to agree.

"Okay. So Dr. House was the only person close to you at that time, is this right?"

"Yes." He thought for a moment and wondered how much he should tell her. "Not just at that point. When you mentioned friends before… I only have the one friend. There have been some other friendships over the years, but nothing that lasted. Nothing of great importance, really."

Wilson knew House might hear of this conversation. He could be listening for all he knew. He hesitated but then continued. This was about House's future and, by extension, his own.

"Dr. House is the only person I would call a friend."

"Okay. When speaking to me yesterday, Dr. House's counsel mentioned that you tried chemotherapy. How did that come about? I thought you didn't want any treatment?"

Wilson knew he had to come clean now. "Early on after my diagnosis, I thought I would give it one shot. I went for double the dose recommended for conservative treatment of a stage II thymoma."

"At which hospital was this?"

"Um… none. I was going to do it at home. Alone." He pictured the DA's face right then. "Yes, I know. But I didn't. Dr. House stopped me."

He paused, not sure how much he should divulge. What he and House did that weekend wasn't exactly legal.

"He persuaded you to do this at the hospital?" The DA prompted him.

"Not exactly. We did it at his apartment instead."

"At Dr. House's apartment? Without any medical supervision?"

"Well, we are both doctors," Wilson set the record straight.

"As far as I know, such treatment is supposed to be conducted under an oncologist's supervision. But in this case, the oncologist was the patient, so Dr. House was the responsible physician here. Were you aware this could cost him his license? Was _he_ aware of this?"

Wilson squirmed a little in his seat. "I guess. I don't know. To be honest, I didn't think. I was relieved I didn't have to do this alone. I didn't ask if he was aware of the consequences. He was known for his unconventional treatments and his disregard for rules."

"Yes, I have been fully apprised of Dr. House's reputation." Wilson detected a little amusement in the DA's voice. "I doubt any of his regular patients were aware of the regulations or knew when a medical license can be suspended. You, however, did know all this."

Wilson had known. And he hadn't cared. He had just been relieved that he didn't have to do this by himself and that House would be taking care of him. Yes, that was it. He sat up straight as if the DA could see him. Time to come clean, not just with the DA but also with himself.

"I was relieved to be going into Dr. House's care because I knew he gave his all for his patients, and I was 100% sure I wouldn't be any different. I knew he would fight tooth and nail for me. It's widely known that Dr. House is a remarkable physician, but he has also been a good friend to me. That fact is less known. And that's because it suited both of us."

"I'm not sure I understand."

Wilson took a deep breath, then continued. "People who know both of us usually assume that I'm the one who is putting up with him and his antics. I think this suits both of us. Most people overlook that I'm not just _putting up_ with him. He is not some child I have to take care of. Although God knows, I've treated him like that more times than I'd like to admit. Friendships, like relationships and marriages, are a give and take. Although I never seem to have understood this where my marriages were concerned."

"So, what you're saying is that your friendship is balanced. If that's the case, what are you getting out of it?"

Wilson should have anticipated this question. He wasn't sure that he knew the answer. Or, if he did, if he wanted to give it. At times, House's friendship was a burden, but it was also a gift.

"Doctor Wilson?"

"Um, yes. What I get out of this is probably acceptance. I don't have to pretend. Dr. House's friendship is pretty much unconditional, as long as I pay for take-out and drinks." He suppressed a laugh. He had never really been bothered by House mooching off him. He knew it was a game. "I also know that our friendship is important to him. In fact, he'd risk more than just his career for me. This whole story we're talking about here, with Dr. House faking his own death, he put his life on the line for me. He did that for me."

"Has he ever told you as much?" the DA asked.

"No. He didn't need to. It's clear to me why he did what he did. He's not exactly known as the caring type – because he doesn't brag. His actions speak for themselves, though. He didn't want me dying alone while he was in prison. So he threw his life away to be there for me. It was a gift for me."

"And what did you do with this gift?"

Wilson smiled to himself. He still had fond memories of those months, even though there were also some memories he could do without. He remembered getting soaked by rain, being so exhausted at night that he was asleep before he even pulled the blankets up, showering in tiny cubicles with motel shower curtains clinging to his legs, the cough starting and his back hurting. But he also remembered Chinese take-out on motel beds, crappy porn on even crappier TV sets, smoky bars – and openness. Wide skies. Excitement.

Finally, he said: "What I did with this gift was what I should have done a long time ago. I started to live. I stopped caring about what impression I made on people and started caring about what I wanted. House left most decisions up to me – where we'd go, what we'd do, how long we'd stay."

The DA took a moment to phrase her next question. "Were you happy?"

He hadn't anticipated that question. In fact, the thought had never even crossed his mind.

"I hadn't thought about that before. But, yes, I think I was happy."

"So Dr. House's gift was appreciated and put to good use?"

Had it been appreciated? He'd certainly never thanked House for putting his life on the line, not in so many words.

"Yes, it was appreciated. In fact, it was appreciated so much that I ended up changing my mind about wanting to die."

There. It was finally out.

"And do you think that, maybe, this had been Dr. House's plan all along? That you would enjoy life on the road, a life of freedom, so much that you'd change your mind?"

Wilson smiled to himself. He had figured that out a while ago. And he wondered how well the DA had come to know House in such a short time.

"Yes, I'm pretty sure that was his plan. He was playing the long game, even though he was under pressure. I had been given five months; he didn't exactly have all the time in the world."

"So how did he react when you told him you had changed your mind?"

Wilson clearly remembered that morning about two months into their trip. He remembered telling House that he would like to look up Dr. Webber in Seattle, and House had just nodded, stuffed more bacon into his mouth and finally said, 'Sure. Let's get packed after breakfast and go.' House would've probably shown the same reaction had Wilson suggested they go to Disneyland next. Inwardly, he must have been so relieved, though. Wilson had never thought about how much House must've been hoping for him to make this decision.

"He stayed outwardly calm and agreed to drive to Seattle with me."

"Outwardly calm? Do you think he really wasn't?"

"No. He can't have been. He must have been relieved. But he never said anything. I know I was scared of what lay ahead of me, so I think he must have been too."

"You two don't talk much, do you?" The DA sounded amused.

"Yes, we do actually. Just not about the important things."

There was a pause at the other end.

"I have one final question for you, Dr. Wilson, and I expect you to answer it honestly. If you were in my position today, if you had to make the decision about what's going to happen to Dr. House's future, what would you do?"

Wilson didn't have to think long. "This is hard. And at the same time, it's incredibly easy. You probably want him to experience the consequences of his actions, some form of punishment maybe. Well, I think the last two years have been enough punishment for him. He spent the last two years with me. I won't go into too much detail, but rest assured that it wasn't pretty. This man, who is in chronic pain by the way, slept in hospital-issue recliners and never really left my side for almost two years. He didn't work, he didn't play his music, he had no home, no friends, no family, not even his name. I think he's paid his debt; he's done his time."

All that had come out in one long breath. He leaned back and hoped he hadn't overdone it. It had been the truth, though, nobody could accuse him of making anything up.

It took a while for the DA to come on again. "Impressive words, Dr. Wilson. Thank you for your honesty and your time. May I phone you again if I have further questions?"

"Sure. I'll be happy to help with anything that comes up."

Just before she ended the call, Wilson thought of something.

"Actually, if you don't mind, there's something else I'd like to say. It's important, to me anyway."

"Okay, go ahead."

He took a deep breath.

"I don't know what you believe in. But I believe that true character comes out in moments of crisis. For as long as we've known each other, from the moment we met, Dr. House has always been there when I needed him. I haven't always acknowledged that, and it took me years to realize it. The time after my diagnosis was probably the second-biggest crisis he has ever faced. And I believe that he acted admirably. Yes, he broke laws. But he stood by a friend. And he saved that friend's life. I wouldn't be here today if not for him. I would've died a lonely death in some hospital. Dr. House knew I didn't want that. He knew that if he complied with the law, I'd die alone. He knew that if he didn't comply there would at least be a small chance I wouldn't die at all. And even if I did, at least it would be on my terms. I believe that for him there really was no choice but to act as he did. And I'm damn grateful that he broke the law."

Rosalyn Mercer thanked him again.

Once the call was over, he didn't quite know what to do with himself. He didn't feel like going straight to work - he was too wound up and exhausted at the same time.

So he made a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. He was tempted to call House but he didn't know what exactly was going on over there, so after deliberating for a while, he finally sent a text.

_Good luck today! Let me know how things go._


	13. Chapter 13

House didn't like the interruption at all. He wasn't tired. He wanted to get this over with. The DA hadn't looked tired either.

So the question was whether her calling for a break was a good sign or a bad one. Logically, a fast decision would've been better. But more time meant also more time for him to tell his story. And to change her mind if necessary.

There wasn't much to do in the area, so he ended up in a coffee shop where he went over the proceedings so far while he ate a pretty decent breakfast.

Rosalyn Mercer was nothing but business-like, and he found her hard to read. Compared to her, Lorimer had been an open book. His dislike of House and the whole situation he had been forced into had emanated from him in almost visible fumes. The DA, on the other hand, didn't appear to be easily fazed. Were the circumstances different, he'd love to poke a little to find out what else - other than a slight impatience and a low tolerance for bullshit - she was hiding under her professional and admittedly pretty good-looking veneer. The temptation was great but since this woman essentially held his future in her hands, he'd better pass on it.

He was about to finish his coffee when his phone chirped. Wilson.

_Good luck today! Let me know how things go._

How the hell did he know what was happening today? He hadn't exactly kept Wilson up-to-date on the proceedings. But maybe Stacy had.

_Tune in to CNN, they'll probably broadcast the verdict live,_ House texted back and grinned despite himself. That should shut him up for a while.

Going back to the DA's office, he wondered if he was walking towards another stint in prison. He really hoped to avoid that this time.

What he remembered most about prison was a profound sense of relief. He had sunk as low as possible. The worst had happened. Whatever happened to him inside, it couldn't be any worse than what had already happened outside. He was where he belonged, paying what he owed.

Despite all the rules and the violence, life in prison was unexpectedly easy: You just stayed alive. Following orders and unspoken rules, forming alliances - it all boiled down to one simple goal: to stay alive. He remembered his relief at being reduced to this simplicity.

But things were very different now. Yes, his life over the last two years had been similarly simple. Its main theme had been to keep Wilson alive. There had been precious little else but to go with the flow and follow the rules of cancer treatment.

But he was done with simplicity now, bored with it. He needed more, couldn't face a further reduction now. He needed his life back, even if it took on a somewhat different shape. Prison was not part of his plan.

But plan or not, it wasn't up to him. And that was what bothered him. It was all in the hands of Rosalyn Mercer, DA.

When House arrived back at the DA's temporary office, she just nodded at him but didn't stop working on her laptop. She looked like she hadn't taken a break. So she had just wanted him out of the room.

House had picked up a coffee when he left the coffee shop. He now put it on her desk without a comment.

"What's this then? A bribe?" The DA finally looked up from her work.

"We're in some rented office so nobody knows what's going on. No witnesses. And you're asking if I'm trying to bribe you with coffee? I'd say you've got bigger things to worry about. So do I."

"Touché." This time, the smile did reach her eyes.

House settled back into his chair. He really hoped this wouldn't take much longer. "It's in my best interest for you to be awake and alert, and I figured the break was just a ruse to get rid of me for a while."

"I can see how people would get the idea you're a smartass." She closed her laptop. "Okay. I spoke to your friend James Wilson while you were out."

So that's how Wilson knew what was going on.

"Why?"

Rosalyn Mercer sighed and shifted in her chair.

"Dr. House, if this were a trial, your defense would be entitled to call a character witness. I'm doing your job here."

"You do know he's an unreliable witness? He's had tons of chemo; it's known to affect the brain."

"You know what? I wonder how you two can even be friends. You constantly argue."

House grinned. "Exactly. We argue, and then we forget about it and go on as if nothing's happened. If that isn't friendship, then I don't know what is."

She shook her head. Then she picked up one of the files on her desk. "I've made some more inquiries. I spoke to Dr. Wilson, and I also did some internet research."

House waited her out.

She sighed again.

"This isn't easy. But after some thinking, I've come to some sort of conclusion. Since this isn't a trial I'd like your input, though."

This was faster than House had anticipated. He had expected another grilling like the one earlier.

He took a deep breath. "Okay, shoot."

"The way I see it, you had two problems. One - the tickets, the plumbing disaster and your parole being revoked. Two - a living man who is currently dead and a dead man who is still alive."

" _Had_ two problems?"

Rosalyn Mercer smiled. "I'm glad you picked up on that. I spoke to Dean Foreman yesterday after I had gone through your files. The plumbing was repaired under some form of compensation scheme from the hospital's insurance. He said he tracked maintenance back over the years and apparently there were issues there. I didn't quite follow his explanations, but he initiated a more thorough investigation and the result was that the tickets alone couldn't have caused that much damage. Basically, the charges were dropped. If you had waited just a little while, your parole wouldn't have been revoked. He can explain everything to you himself, he asked for you to contact him when we've sorted the second problem."

This was a surprise. For once, Foreman was on House's side.

House nodded. "What about problem number two?"

"This is the bigger one, obviously. I had a number of questions. Did Oliver Marsden have family? Anyone who'd miss him or who needed to be notified of his passing? Dean Foreman cleared that up for me, too. Oliver Marsden had an ex-wife and two children. I did a little poking around and it turns out she recently initiated proceedings to have him declared dead. Apparently, her new husband wants to adopt the children. I think we'll be able to speed up that process now. Dean Foreman offered to notify the family."

"Why?"

The DA didn't look surprised at that question. "I asked myself the same thing. Yesterday, I thought he was doing this to help you out. Now that I've met you, though, I don't think he's doing it just because he likes you."

Exactly what House thought. Foreman would want something in return. There would be time enough to find out what, or so he hoped.

"So the only problem we're left with is how to explain why Oliver Whatshisname was mistakenly identified as Gregory House two years ago," concluded House.

"Quite. And for this, J. P. Lorimer came to the right person, whether he knew it or not. Knowing him, he probably knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted you out of his hair as soon as possible so he went right to the top of the food chain. He could've tried the assistant DA. But he hasn't had any problems with a certain coroner's clerk. I have. You don't need to know the details, but last year I lost a case because this clerk had misfiled something. I went to court with incorrect information, my case got thrown out, the accused walked. It was a pretty high-profile case. It didn't cost me my career, but let's just say that my life didn't exactly get easier afterwards. This clerk has since retired. Wisely so, I might add. There may be no harm in adding one more misfiling to his record now."

House took a deep breath. You live long enough you'll find everyone has an axe to grind with someone.

And yet.

"Why?"

Rosalyn Mercer finally took the coffee House had placed on her desk earlier. It was probably cold by now but that didn't seem to bother her.

"That's the question, isn't it? Why should I do this? J. P. Lorimer would tell you it's because he's got something on me." She smiled and a light danced in her eyes. "Let's just say, it's not as big as he'd like to believe. I've survived a lot to get where I am. I could survive whatever he's prepared to throw at me. So the question remains."

Things had looked brighter only a minute ago. Miss Mercer wasn't averse to playing a game or two, House realized. This could still go either way.

"Let me guess," he ventured, "my lovely blue eyes convinced you I'm worth it?"

"No. Lovely as they may be, I'm not swayed by anyone's eyes, no matter what color." She put down the file she had been toying with. "However, occasionally I can be swayed by a good story. You giving up your life for your dying friend, you have to admit, that's a good one."

House snorted. "It's sentimental bullshit. Did Wilson tell you this?"

Her raised eyebrow told him all he needed to know.

"Well, he's an idiot."

"Be that as it may. The question is, is he wrong?"

"Yes." She clearly didn't believe him. House sighed. "No."

Rosalyn Mercer just nodded. "You going to prison when you didn't have to, that's another good story. Tell me why you didn't get legal representation. Tell me why you voluntarily went to prison when you probably could've gotten away with parole."

This was unexpected. He had just thought about this before returning after their break.

"I got what I deserved; I took the punishment. You've read the files. After what happened, I couldn't trust myself to make any decisions – and you don't get to make any decisions in prison. Everything is decided for you. Life inside is brutal but simple." House shrugged.

When he didn't continue, Rosalyn Mercer said, "That's not much of a story, though, is it?"

He had kept it deliberately short. She either understood or she didn't.

"Well, it's the only one I've got."

Her throaty laugh took him by surprise.

"At least you're honest." She eyed him. "Or I think you are. You never know."

"Everything I said is true."

She nodded. "I believe you. But you haven't told me everything. You probably think it's my fault for not asking the right questions."

He was clever enough not to take this bait.

The DA thought for a moment and then continued, "I know you want this to be over as much as I do. But I do need some more time before we can finish this off. You can wait outside or go for a coffee. Give me half an hour."

House rolled his cane between his palms. She had dismissed him again. It was beginning to irk him. But this was not the time to start an argument. He couldn't afford to piss her off too much.

So he got up without a word and left the room once more.


	14. Chapter 14

Rosalyn Mercer could see that Dr. House was not happy about the second break. He hadn't liked the first one either. She expected some form of protest or a smart remark, but in the end, he just got up and left the room. When the door closed behind him – a little louder than strictly necessary, she thought – she breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back in her chair.

It was only 11 am, and it had been a long morning already. Only cold dregs were left in the takeout cup he had brought her earlier, and she greedily drank every last drop.

For a while, she just stared at the files before her and went back over the morning's conversations in her mind.

She had done a lot of reading last night to prepare herself for this meeting. What she hadn't been prepared for was the man himself. Dr. Foreman had warned her. _He can be difficult_ , he had said. _But he is probably smarter than you and me together – no offence._ None taken _. He is a pain in the ass as a boss and a nightmare as an employee. I've dealt with him in both capacities. But he's the best in his field. Was and always will be_.

She couldn't attest to Dr. House's professional qualities, but the time she had just spent with him had certainly been draining.

Her back was sore from sitting in this horrible chair for hours, so she pushed back from the desk and stood up to stretch out for a bit.

But even while she was trying to relax her mind couldn't stop turning the facts around – as sparse as they were.

She hadn't lied when she said that J.P. Lorimer didn't have much on her. The problem wasn't what he had but what the press would make of it. So she hadn't hesitated when she got his call two days ago. Lorimer was a louse. The press could be a pack of wolves.

What surprised her was that the case genuinely interested her – even more so after Dr. House had walked into her office this morning. _Temporary_ office, as he had immediately figured out.

He was certainly smart. What she hadn't reckoned with was that he'd be so intense. She found him almost inscrutable at times – there was so much more going on in that head of his than he let on.

And so she now asked herself if she was being played. Or maybe the question wasn't _if_ but _how much_. She didn't think he had lied to her. Over the years, she had developed quite an accurate bullshit detector. But he had also not told her everything, she was certain of that.

But while she guessed that he had only said half of what he thought, if that, she also knew it didn't mean that he was lying or had indeed committed a crime – other than impersonating another person and acquiring a false identity.

If anything, the fact that he hadn't been especially insufferable this morning spoke in his favor. To her, he looked like a man trying his best to keep his temper and impulses under control. All while those bright eyes of his didn't seem to miss a thing. She felt as if she had been under a microscope all morning when, by rights, it should've been the other way around.

She sighed, sat back down at the desk and made a few notes. When she was done, she went to open the door.

He appeared to have been pacing the corridor. The moment she opened the door, he turned and looked at her. She tried to keep her face impassive although she was fully aware that he was trying to read what she had decided.

"Dr. House, if you'd like to come back in…"

She watched him come towards her with a lot more speed she'd thought possible given his uneven gait and stepped aside when there was no indication of him slowing down as he reached the doorway.

"Someone's in a hurry," she joked as she sat back down behind the desk.

He glared at her. "Don't pretend that you aren't. You've probably got a real desk with a mountain of real cases on it somewhere in this town."

Indeed, she had.

"And yet, I'm sure that none of them are as interesting as this morning has been." She allowed herself to smile a little and looked straight at him. Two could play this game. It was fun to see that he didn't look away once their eyes had locked. He could hardly wait to hear what she had decided. In another life, she wouldn't have minded spending some time outside of this office, any office, with this man. He was certain to be anything but boring.

Her eyes still on him, she reached for her notepad.

"We do not always remember the things that do us no credit. We usually cover them in lies or excuses, or we simply forget them. That goes for most people. From what I have seen and heard over the last couple of hours, you are not like most people. I think somewhere along the way you have learned to dissect and evaluate people's actions and motives down to the minutest details. You are a harsh critic, Dr. House. Not surprisingly, people usually don't like someone like that. And from what I've heard, many people don't like you. That doesn't necessarily speak against you. I know many people don't like me either."

He smirked at that but didn't say anything.

She continued. "What I think those people don't know – because you don't want them to see or because they don't look hard enough, maybe a bit of both – is that you are your own harshest critic. As tough as you are on others, you seem to be even harder on yourself. I can't say whether that's a good thing or a bad thing, maybe it just is.

"I can't profess to know you, but I have listened closely to you and to a couple of people who know you. I think you've held your own hearing a long time ago, and you've passed judgment. You're only here today because you have to be - because you want your life back. Or maybe not your life as it was. Just _a_ life."

Here she paused for a moment.

"I work under the premise that justice without the opportunity for redemption is torture, Dr. House. Your friend Dr. Wilson has said something very interesting. He told me that, in his eyes, you have already received your punishment. You spent two years taking care of him. That's longer than your original sentence plus extra time for violating your parole would have been. From what I've learned, looking after another human being isn't really your thing, as they say. And yet, you've done this voluntarily. Nobody forced you. Indeed, you had to work hard to be able to do this. I think this constitutes change, humanity and decency even if you did break the law along the way.

"Now, maybe it's because he is your friend, but Dr. Wilson thinks you don't deserve any more punishment. My task is to decide whether the state would agree with that opinion.

"In light of the fact that you have not actually harmed anyone – the death of Oliver Marsden has been ruled an accidental overdose…" She stopped for a moment. The man opposite her held his breath. They both knew her next words would decide his future. "We will not reopen that case. From what his file tells me he had been on a slippery slope. You may or may not have hastened his demise, that's not for me to say. It is for me to say, however, whether you should stand trial for impersonating another person and acquiring a false identity. Taking into account the extenuating circumstances, no ill will in impersonating someone and no criminal activities over the last two years, I conclude that it wouldn't serve anyone if we sent this to court to try and put you behind bars now."

As expected, there were no tears of joy. In fact, there was no great display of emotion at all. But, for a sliver of a second, she saw something flash in his eyes – so quick that she would later ask herself if she hadn't imagined it. After this, she was pleased to see his face soften just a little and his posture relax. Just a couple more minutes and they could both go back to their everyday lives.

"Dr. House, I've done my part here. If you want to practice again in this state, or any other for that matter, you will have to take this up with the relevant bodies. I'd advise you to tread carefully as it might cause someone to look closer at the case than both you and I would like. This has been an unusual day for me, to say the least. Unusual, but a welcome interruption of my routine."

She now openly smiled at him.

"I wish I could ask you to use this chance to turn over a new leaf but that would be futile. You're free to go, Dr. House. And may you never darken the door of my office again."

"This isn't even your office." The look on his face could only be described as mischievous.

She didn't try to suppress a laugh this time. Instead, she returned his nod, watched him get up, take his coat and turn to leave.

At the door, she thought she saw him hesitate for a second. He didn't turn back, so what he was thinking was anyone's guess.

The moment passed – if it had ever existed – and he quietly closed the door behind himself.


	15. Chapter 15

Relief.

Sheer and utter relief.

Relief that, for once in his life, he had managed to keep his big mouth in check and had not pissed off the DA. Relief that in a little while, he would be able to return to his own life, whatever shape it would take.

As tempted as House was to head off to the nearest bar to celebrate, he knew there were people waiting to hear from him.

Wilson could wait, he would be at work by now anyway. But Stacy was sure to be on tenterhooks, so he sent her a short text. _'Late lunch? My treat.'_

They met up half an hour later at a sushi bar close to her office.

Instead of a greeting, she just wrapped her arms around him and kissed him - on the cheek.

"I'm so glad for you."

He was amused. "You don't even want to ask how it went?"

She let go and sat down in a corner seat. "You offering to buy me lunch is the biggest giveaway of the century. Things must have gone well."

Over lunch of nigiri, tempura prawns and a bowl of miso soup he gave her a quick summary of the morning's events.

"I don't know Rosalyn Mercer personally but professionally she's got a reputation for being a bit of a hard-ass," Stacy mused when he was finished. "I'd say you were lucky."

"Don't know about hard but its size was respectable."

She rolled her eyes. "I assume you didn't tell her that or you'd be in lockup by now."

Ever the lawyer, Stacy then took control of the details. Driving license, passport, medical license - "I'll take care of it," she said.

"My old driving license is still valid. It'll do for the return flight. I can do the rest when I'm back in Seattle."

"You kept your old license? Did you know you'd need it again?"

He shrugged. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't."

She smiled when she realized what it meant. Yes, he had been playing the long game with Wilson, hoping he'd lose the will to die.

Then she dropped her gaze and continued to scribble on a pad she had pulled out of her shoulder bag. "I can deal with the rest then."

He pulled the notepad away and took the pen from her hand.

"Hey!"

"You don't need to do that. I can handle this myself. You've helped enough."

Stacy took her pen and paper back.

"No, I haven't. I know you're stubborn, and I know you can do this by yourself. But it'll be faster and easier if I handle this." She didn't add that it would also be safer and less likely to cause suspicion. "Let me do what I do well. At least I can do something now."

She locked eyes with him in that determined way she had. And she called him stubborn. He had always imagined she'd been quite a headstrong child.

This was about more than a passport and his license. He saw the unspoken ' _please'_ in her look and knew this was her chance to make amends. He understood that she wanted to give him part of his life back because half a lifetime ago she had taken another part of it.

"A sentimental lawyer – I always thought those were mythical creatures," he finally said and stole the last prawn from her plate.

"They are. If you publicly claim otherwise, I'll sue you. And you know I'll win."

Stacy ended the discussion by putting her notepad away and pushing the check towards House.

* * *

With Stacy returned to work, House was at a loose end for the afternoon. He got a takeout coffee and sat down across from a bookstore.

Halfway through his coffee, he decided that there was no point putting it off and called the PPTH switchboard, asking to be put through to Dean Foreman's office.

"Make sure it's his direct line, not his lackey's extension." When the receptionist snappily asked for his name, he replied, "Isak Dinesen."

He grinned when she didn't miss a beat and put him on hold.

It took a few minutes before Foreman's voice came on the line.

"Isak Dinesen was a woman. If someone actually sold you a new identity with that name, you're not as smart as everyone thinks, House." He sounded just as stressed and annoyed as two years ago. But House also seemed to detect just a little amusement in his voice.

"You're not as stupid as most people think."

"And you're not quite as dead as most people think."

"Why did you look into the building's maintenance after the plumbing exploded?"

"Whoa, no foreplay, House?"

"Oh, cut the crap. You're just playing for time." He had no intention of making small talk with Foreman. "Why?"

"Because you left a little something in my office, House. I thought you might appreciate not being hauled back to jail if and when you decided to rejoin the living."

Indeed, it had helped. Still. "The question remains. Why?"

There was a deep sigh at the other end. "Maybe I was being nice."

House snorted in reply.

"Okay." Foreman sighed again. "When you apparently passed away, our human resources people went through your file before closing it off. Turns out you had hardly taken any vacation. Ever. Except for a week several years ago, you never missed a day of work. Maybe I thought PPTH owed you."

"Like hell." House didn't believe a word of what he had just heard. "I'm about to hang up. So - why?"

"Because your hospital ID in my office told me it would be a better idea than looking into the fact why I had never noticed you apparently had a cracked upper left lateral incisor."

Oliver Whathisname and he had shared only some very rudimentary physical similarities – there had been no time to take care of the finer details.

"Seems like you learned something from me after all."

"Yeah, seems I did."

There was a pause in the conversation. House considered ending the call after all but he knew there was more to this. But he also knew when to stop digging. Time to change tack.

"So, how's my department doing?"

"It's no longer your department," Foreman shot back. Then, after a moment, "it's going okay."

So this was it.

"Aha." To someone who didn't know Foreman, this would've sounded entirely believable. But House wasn't someone. "You're up shit creek then."

Foreman protested. "How do you get _shit creek_ out of _okay_?"

House leaned back on his bench and shot a nasty look to an elderly lady who appeared to consider sitting down next to him. The woman hugged her bag tightly against her chest and left hurriedly.

"You love showing off. If things were going well you would've told me. In fact, you would've rubbed my nose in how well it's been going since I left. But instead of rattling off success stories and figures, you go with _okay_."

Foreman stayed silent.

"So, what's going on?"

A pause.

"I don't know."

"Again, not what a successful Dean of Medicine would reply."

"Look, House." Foreman seemed to pull himself together. "The numbers aren't great. The number of referrals and consult requests has dropped. Chase isn't making any obvious mistakes, as far as I can tell. Maybe it's just the fact that your name is no longer attached to the department..."

House could tell he was trying to make light of something he'd had no intention of discussing with him.

"… but people don't trust the wombat? Donations have dried up? Just a wild guess."

"Maybe." Foreman sounded resigned. "Could you not talk to him? See what's going on? I've tried."

So this was where Foreman wanted his back scratched. He had started the investigation into the plumbing maintenance to make sure he had something to trade if and when House showed up again. Maybe the insurance had required or even demanded it. And when Rosalyn Mercer called with questions about House, Foreman had known the time had come. He definitely hadn't planned on telling House things weren't exactly going perfectly fine. A department not doing well was as much Foreman's problem as it was the department head's problem. He had probably hoped to get him to talk to Chase under some pretense, maybe even arrange a reunion of sorts. He nearly laughed out loud.

House had expected worse. He had half suspected Foreman would want him to come back to work for him. House had no intentions of returning to PPTH. Now that he was away from Princeton, he liked his life just fine most days. Especially since it was bound to become a little more interesting after this morning. Talking to Chase wasn't a high price to pay for not having to go back to prison and Foreman helping him out a little. Besides, knowing something wasn't right made him want to look into things anyway. He might as well pretend he was doing it as a favor to Foreman.

"Okay."

"Really?" Foreman had clearly anticipated more resistance.

"Sure. He still has the same cell number?"

He did.

Just when House was about to end the call, Foreman remembered something else.

"Hey, how's Wilson?"

Clearly almost an afterthought.

"He's fine. Peachy. A little less hair and not as chubby but apparently that's a look the ladies dig nowadays."

"Well, tell him I'm glad he's okay. And you too, House."

"Yeah yeah, save it. I'll talk to Chase. No need to overdo it with the niceties."

House ended the call. Not for the first time that day, he marvelled at the fact how coincidences determine the course a life takes. Stacy knew something about Lorimer who knew something about the DA who remembered the coroner's clerk and decided to talk to Foreman who was a bit of a wheeler-dealer who always needed an ace in his pocket… and as a result of all this, his own life was about to change.

Life was like that. It turned on a dime – and sometimes on several dimes in a row.


	16. Chapter 16

Some things don't change.

Sheehan's was quiet this time of the day. It was still early; the serious drinkers wouldn't arrive for another couple of hours.

For now, there was room at the bar and getting a drink took only a minute, tops. House slotted right into his old seat, everything that odd kind of familiar. The décor was still as sparse as it had always been, the barman had changed but kept the attitude and, most importantly, there were no PPTH faces to be found in the vicinity.

House had spent the afternoon in various bookstores and coffee shops, taking advantage of free Wi-Fi, and was now glad to see the end of this day. It had been a long one. But there was one more job to be done.

He had texted Chase straight after ending the call with Foreman, guessing it would be best to give the Aussie as much notice as possible. You never knew if and when he'd be able to get away if he was on a case. So he chose a meeting place where he wouldn't mind spending an extra hour waiting for his former fellow. He'd had enough coffee for one day. Sheehan's was perfect.

_"_ _You up for a talk about your future? Sheehan's 8pm."_

Apparently, Chase wasn't quite as quick on the uptake as Foreman. _"Who's this?"_

_"_ _Someone you want to talk to if you want to save your job."_

There had been no further reply. Now House was waiting to see if Chase was worried enough to show up.

He was and he did.

Half an hour late, Chase slid smoothly onto the bar stool to House's right. He acknowledged House with a nod, saw that the barman was at the other end of the bar serving customers and asked, "do they have a drinks menu?"

"Nope. And before you even ask, they don't do fancy craft beers either."

House was amused by how little and yet how much Chase had changed. He was still as pretty and blond as ever. But he looked stressed: lines had started to show on his boyish face and there were dark circles around his eyes which were now half hidden behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

"What's with the glasses?"

"We all get older." Chase shrugged and caught the barman's attention to order a beer. Then he turned to House. "Do you want to stay here at the bar or move to a table? Maybe more private that way?"

House grinned. "I don't know what you've got planned, but I'm fine where I am."

He held Chase's inquiring gaze.

"So you aren't in trouble with the law? Are you a free man again? And alive, for that matter?"

Apparently, Foreman hadn't blabbed.

"Alive and kicking."

House ordered another bourbon for himself and watched Chase almost downing his beer in one. Someone was thirsty. "And another bottle of whatever Mr. Happy here had."

Chase raised an eyebrow. "House paying for drinks - things have definitely changed. Did you have a personality transplant while you were supposedly dead?"

"I spent two years with Wilson, his do-goodery rubbed off. Wouldn't be here otherwise."

"How is Wilson?"

"Peachy."

"I was wrong. You haven't changed at all. Since you said you spent two years with him I guess you somehow made him change his mind about treatment. Good for you. And for him, obviously."

House nodded. "Happiness all around."

Chase fiddled with a beermat. "Talking about happiness, are you okay with me running your department now?"

"You asking if you deserve it? Want my approval?" House sipped his bourbon. "Then you don't deserve it."

When Chase didn't reply House looked up and caught him grinning into his beer.

"You're too cocky. But then, so was I."

" _Was_?" The glee in Chase's face was apparent. He seemed to enjoy sparring with House as much as ever.

"Oh, wait. Was that a flutter of pity?" House cocked his head in mock attention. "No, sorry. My mistake. You _do_ deserve Foreman as boss."

"I remember you complaining about Cuddy getting involved in every aspect of the department, but believe me, Foreman is worse." He waited for Chase to elaborate but nothing followed.

House drained his glass, signalled the barman to bring him another and then finally asked, "So how are things really? Why didn't you diagnose the woman with Type 3 PAS?"

Chase looked surprised.

"How do you know about that?"

"One, because I sent her to you and two, because she's now complaining all over the internet that you're useless. And me too, by the way, because I recommended you."

Chase took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

"Did you know she had PAS? Scratch that. Of course you did," he corrected himself. "I can't believe you'd put a patient's life in jeopardy. Why? Were you bored?"

"An idiot would spot the bruises and put two and two together. They weren't bruises but skin discolorations from her diabetes which she also didn't know she had. Besides, I was dead and couldn't officially diagnose her. I was just a concerned forum user who pointed her in the right direction. Or so I thought."

Chase looked dejected.

Not entirely sure if he really wanted to go there, House took a leap anyway.

"You need help, mate. Up to 5% of your cases go undiagnosed and your overall numbers are way down."

"How do you know?" Chase scowled.

"I haff wayz and meanz," House joked. In truth, all he had was Google, membership of various online medical communities and Foreman's statement that the numbers weren't great. "At the risk of sounding like your shrink: Do you want to talk about it?"

Chase snorted but didn't say anything for a while. He finished his beer and ordered another one, then put his glasses back on. He eventually took them off again and looked straight at House.

"People don't trust me." As if that was new. But House let him finish his little, clearly unrehearsed speech. "I'm too young, don't have enough experience, look too smooth – whatever it is, they're not giving me a chance. And I'm supposed to be the eminent department head. My team should be able to use me as a back-up if there are issues with the patient. _Your_ PAS patient didn't like the look of me the minute she clapped eyes on me. It was a losing battle – I'm pretty sure we didn't get a full history."

"So you think wearing glasses and a suit your grandfather could've rocked will make you less pretty and more trustworthy? You think the referrals will start piling up because you dress differently? Good luck with that."

"Got a better idea?"

House had plenty of ideas. He just wasn't sure if he wanted to tell Chase about any of them and, even less, if he wanted to put any of them into action. In fact, coming back to the east coast, he had worried about getting sucked into the PPTH vortex of insanity again. And he was dancing dangerously close to it right now. He hadn't promised Foreman anything other than that he'd talk to Chase. He could tick that item off his list. Theoretically, he could call it a day and leave it at that.

But the Aussie looked resigned and while House might have pretended to have no real interest in how his old department was doing, it wasn't quite the truth. Diagnostics at PPTH had been the first department of its kind and as such was something of House's baby. His name might no longer be on the door but it would forever be associated with it. House had to admit he felt a little nostalgic and protective.

"Yeah, I do. Say, would Foreman fork out some money for regular or irregular consults?"

There, he had said it. He had no intentions of ever setting foot in the building again, let alone of showing up on Foreman's payroll. But he didn't need to. If he could have access to some interesting cases, get paid for it and help Chase back on his feet, and all of it without being beholden to anyone, why should he turn his back on that opportunity?

"I guess. As long as it brings in results. That's all he cares about; his numbers." Chase shrugged.

"Having someone with experience on call, someone whose name you can you pull out of your sleeve like an ace could be the confidence booster you need. You don't have to use it. You know full well that a confident demeanor is half the battle. But now you will have something to back it up. Just knowing you have VIP access will make people trust you."

Chase, however, wasn't quite as delighted and eager as House had hoped. He liked being in charge and was worried about losing control. He disliked being told what to do, but House also knew he wasn't above making a shady deal or two to further his career.

"And that mysterious VIP would be you, I guess."

"Might be. If the conditions are right." House knew he would have to make Chase work for it. Presenting him everything nicely wrapped with a bow on top wouldn't go down well. It would just be more of the same – young doctor is handed his career on a silver platter. Chase had spent most of his life trying to first step out of his father's shadow and later out of House's, so he wasn't about to happily move back.

It took Chase a few moments to reach a decision. "Okay, what do you have in mind?"

They spent the next hour drawing up the details of their future collaboration. More drinks and a bag of pretzels aided the brainstorming process.


	17. Chapter 17

Stacy was cranky.

They were having breakfast in her kitchen. Or rather, House was having breakfast, and she was typing furiously on her laptop. She only interrupted her work to occasionally drink from her coffee mug and take a spoonful of something that looked deceptively like what you'd find at the bottom of a compost bin but what she insisted were overnight oats. House wondered if Wilson knew about this. It looked right up his alley. He had decided to start the day properly and made himself a decent breakfast with eggs, toast and some crispy bacon.

They were on their own because Mark had already gone to school.

"He's gone to _work_ ," Stacy never tired of correcting him.

"Well, he works in a school, so technically, he's still going to school."

She wasn't up to an argument, not even a fun one, and just ignored him while she continued her preparation. Apparently, one of her cases had turned out to be a lot more complicated than anyone had predicted.

Anyone who didn't know her well would have thought this was the cause for her crankiness.

House knew better.

It was the morning of his departure, and he was sure Stacy's mood had at least a little to do with him set to leave that afternoon. Work never made her cranky. She got stressed, yes. But when that happened she had the habit of narrowing her focus to the problem at hand and completely ignoring any potential distraction until the stressful situation was resolved. She only got cranky and pissy when emotions were involved.

Stacy barely looked up from her work, and House didn't like being unable to see her face - not when it was unlikely he would see her again anytime soon. She was probably at least a little pleased to see the back of him. For House, the last week had been fun at times, and he was sure he wasn't the only one who felt like that. Despite the niggling little part of his brain which kept asking how she could settle for someone as boring as Mark, he was actually glad to see her happy. And yet. Except for the days he had been to see Lorimer and the DA, they had spent almost a week in each other's company, and it had felt good. Best to put an end to it now, though. Jokes and innuendos were all well and good but they both knew where it would inevitably lead. They had been there before, and House wasn't willing to revisit that particular part of his past. According to what she had told him when he arrived, Stacy didn't want to either.

He remembered Lorimer's elegant office and his expensive clothes and wondered, not for the first time, what it was that Stacy had on him. So far she had remained close-lipped.

"Well, at least Lorimer should be happy this morning," he ventured.

"I'm not sure if he is ever happy." She didn't even look up from her screen.

"Why?"

She sighed and finally closed her laptop.

"Lorimer is a creep."

"Why?"

"What are you, five? He just is."

"That's only half a degree up from _because_ , and you know it," he taunted. "You just need to stamp your foot to complete the picture."

Stacy finally laughed and got up to pour herself fresh coffee.

House decided to dig a little deeper. "Is this what you've got on him? That he's a creep? How far up the creep scale are we talking?"

She sat back down and eyed him over the rim of her mug. "I'm not telling you, so stop digging."

"If you're not telling me, and he took me on when you told him to, it must be really bad. I'm guessing felony bad."

He expected her expression to give her away. People's tells usually don't change over time unless they have reason to work on them and change them. But she continued to look calm and relaxed, and a little amused. Interesting.

"How can you square that with your conscience? A creep is free to continue doing creepy things?"

Stacy had that little smile on her face that told him she didn't want to break into a laugh. She shrugged. "Who said he's free to continue being a creep? Maybe someone made sure his wife also knows the extent of his creepiness and…"

"… and since his wife is the one with the money, his creepiness is therefore contained." House grinned. "I'm impressed. You know, and his wife knows. That's like leg irons for the guy; he can't step out of line. No wonder he looks so pissed all the time."

House saw that little triumphant gleam in her eyes, the one she got when she won an argument or a case. The one that made her extra spunky.

Stacy was in the middle of a pretend bow accepting his praise when her cell phone beeped.

She read the message and sighed.

"Mark will have to drive you to the airport."

Apparently, his face hadn't expressed enough excitement at the prospect of spending a couple of hours in the car with her husband because she continued, "I've got an afternoon meeting. Mark can drive you. He can leave early, I can't."

"You don't trust yourself around me."

She just looked at him, a little smile playing in the left corner of her mouth.

"Fact," he said.

Stacy shook her head. "Could be another fact altogether. Could be that I trust you with Mark. Have you considered the possibility?"

He hadn't. It was possible, he guessed. After her initial freak-out in the car just after his arrival, she had appeared quite relaxed when he and Mark were in the same room. But there was still a residual tension between them; a tension he remembered well and didn't entirely dislike. He guessed she didn't either. Which was part of her problem.

She was probably right. They were both right.

"Everything is possible in some universe somewhere," he finally conceded.

She got ready to leave. Before heading out the door, she stepped up to him and put her hands on his arms. They looked at each other for a moment, neither of them ready to say what needed to be said.

Finally, he gently raised her chin up and kissed her. They lingered longer than they should have. In the end, she was the one to break the kiss.

"Safe travels, Greg. Be well."

She took her bag and left.

She didn't look back.

House stood motionless in the middle of her warm and bright kitchen. He closed his eyes and savored the kiss he had not quite stolen but initiated. She had tasted of coffee, apricot and honey.

After a while, he went to his room to pack his bag.

* * *

The drive to the airport with Mark wasn't as bad as House had expected it to be. Mark didn't seem all that put out that he had to make the trip. And if he was, he didn't show it.

"Did she lie to me?" Mark didn't take his eyes off the road. He was a good driver.

House hesitated for a moment but then realized he had nothing to lose by being honest. He was leaving. "Of course she can lie; she's a lawyer."

"Interesting choice of words. And not really an answer to my question. And you didn't even ask what I think she lied about."

"You know, you're smarter than you look." House chuckled.

"I work with high school kids who lie as a rule. I'm married to a lawyer. Some days I feel like a walking lie detector." There was a slight bitterness in his voice. "I know she still loves you."

"She doesn't."

"Now don't you start. You don't need to lie for her."

"Not a lie." House shook his head. "I don't believe she still loves me. She's attracted to me, yes. She feels guilty, yes. But love? No."

"She told you all that?"

House snorted. "No way. She told me she was over me."

"She lied."

"Of course she lied. She's a lawyer."

Mark sighed.

"Good point. I know she's lied to me in the past. About little things. Probably. I'm not stupid enough to want to find out about what exactly."

"Good for you." House wasn't sure where this was going. Either way, he didn't feel comfortable discussing Stacy with her husband of all people. He was glad they were getting close to the airport now.

"I guess you couldn't do that. Leave things be? You'd have to find out, no matter the cost."

"Yes. Which is why you're the one who's married to her."

Mark sighed. "I do love her."

"I know."

Mark looked surprised.

"And she loves you," House continued.

"Only because she couldn't have you."

That was quite possibly true. But House wasn't about to tell him that. He had promised.

"You really believe that? How many chances has she had to have me? You're still the one she's married to. You're happy. It's disgusting to watch, but you are."

Mark thought for a moment while he tried to find parking close to the terminal. "Yes, I think we are. Mostly."

"Nobody your age with half a brain can be reasonably expected to be happy for longer than ten minutes."

"Good point."

House opened the passenger door and got out. Maybe boring was the wrong word for Mark. Maybe decent was more appropriate. After he had grabbed his bag and cane from the back seat he leaned down into the open door.

"So keep being mostly happy. Beats what most people have."


	18. Chapter 18

"Dr. House?"

The hand on his shoulder was gentle but insistent.

He was sure he'd only fallen asleep five minutes ago.

"Huh?"

The flight attendant smiled at him. "The back of your seat needs to be in the upright position for landing. We're approaching Seattle now."

Apparently, he had slept longer than five minutes.

At first, he had thought he wouldn't survive the flight without bashing someone's head in. That someone most likely being one of the idiot freshmen seated right in front of him. Or both of them. He had picked a window seat in the hope of avoiding someone climbing over him every half-hour. Instead, he was rewarded with inane chatter about shopping and guys they fancied – at a level which ensured the whole plane was able to listen. They were every passenger's nightmare. Or maybe only House's because he seemed the only one inclined to do something. Everyone else rolled their eyes but remained silent.

When the Nightmare Twins didn't lower the volume after a relatively polite request to tone things down a bit, he'd had a word with a flight attendant to see if there were any free seats on the plane. But his half-hearted attempt at flirting with her fell flat; the answer was negative. The information was conveyed with a smile but the answer was still no.

So he'd sat there sipping a coffee and wished he had something stronger than milk to add to it. At the very least, it would have improved the coffee. An attempt to distract himself with the in-flight program had proved futile. It wasn't just the volume. The longer he had to listen to those girls, the more he was convinced they were sharing a brain.

Eventually, House had stood up, squeezed past his neighbor, stumped down the aisle and loomed over the flight attendant with the nice smile.

"You either move them or me - or I won't be held accountable for my actions. I swear, every judge would accept what I'm about to do as justifiable self-defense."

The woman's eyes went wide, and he could see her hesitate for a fraction of a second. Theoretically, she should raise the alarm now because he had uttered a threat. But House was confident that she wouldn't. He didn't fancy starting his new life as a terrorist suspect. He didn't think he would have to because she had seen him hobble down the aisle twice, once when he boarded and now when he had come up to her. His leg still bothered him more than usual, even though the swelling around his knee had receded considerably by now. He leaned on his cane a bit more openly, sighed and then looked down at the floor. A couple of deep breaths, and then he said, "seriously, you need to do something. I can't take this all the way to Seattle."

"Sir, if you go back to your seat, I'll see what I can do."

She had a much softer smile for him when he looked up. One that he knew well. But, for once, he didn't mind seeing it because it boded well. As long as he got a seat away from the Nightmare Twins he didn't care.

Biting back a comeback to her pity was rewarded with a seat in business class.

Definitely worth it, he had thought when he stretched his legs and ordered a drink. There was no question that he'd be stiff and in pain anyway after this flight. But another drink – he'd already had one earlier at the airport where Mark had dropped him off early – and an extra dose of Vicodin would hopefully help him get some sleep.

And now he sat in his relatively comfortable and, more importantly, quiet seat, his seat back upright as requested and watched the approach into Seattle-Tacoma.

Even though the light was fading fast, he could see a whole lot more green down there than when he'd left. Or maybe he just hadn't paid much attention then because he was too wound up about his impending trip. Maybe spring had finally arrived.

On take-off from Newark, he had felt a surprising sense of relief. Leaving the east coast, what had served as his home for so long, shouldn't have been easy. And it hadn't been. He hadn't exactly packed his bags one day and left. Considering what he – and especially Wilson – had been through over the last two or three years, it had been quite an arduous and painful parting. But leaving today had felt like a final leave-taking; a chapter closed.

Retracing the flight's progress on the screen now, it occurred to him that he couldn't have moved further away from his old life bar leaving the country altogether. Wilson had brought them here but he hadn't exactly objected. Wilson's cancer aside, he wondered if they both hadn't run as far as they could.

This was as good a place as any and better than many. As with almost everything in life, you got used to a place. You settled. He had settled in the literal sense of the word. But not settled for less. More, he hoped, but that remained to be seen. He remembered Rosalyn Mercer saying she wished he'd turn over a new leaf and wondered if that's what awaited him down there. He definitely had options, maybe more than ever before in his life. But then, change itself meant nothing. For it to be good change he would actually have to do something.

After they had landed, House grabbed his jacket. He'd worn his damaged leather jacket on the flight because it was too bulky to fit into his small bag which he'd checked in rather than carried onto the plane. Something rustled in one of the pockets. He pulled out his boarding pass and a small card fell out. It simply said 'Matt Davies – musician' and listed his contact details. He turned it over and found a note scrawled on the back.

_Look me up if you ever feel like jamming again._

Yes, he definitely had options. House grinned to himself.

But first, homewards.

* * *

When House arrived at their apartment he found Wilson at the kitchen counter. Some wildlife documentary was on TV. Wilson looked like he had just come home from work – he was still neatly dressed with his tie thrown back over his shoulder while he was making dinner. He didn't turn around although there was no way he could've missed the sound of the door.

There was a pile of vegetables on the chopping board. Right now he would even eat one of Wilson's healthy stir-fries without a single complaint. It didn't look enough for two, though, since he hadn't told Wilson that he was coming back today. But House knew he would find the refrigerator fully stocked. He could always make himself a sandwich. Which would be a poor alternative if he could have proper, home-cooked food instead.

House paused a moment to inhale the smells.

If this was the life he was returning to, then that was pretty okay with him.

It was good to be back.

"Looks like you need to add some meat to the mix."

"No, I don't." Wilson still hadn't turned around. "I stopped eating meat while you were away."

That was the end of House's dream of a juicy ham sandwich. He would have to do some shopping tomorrow.

"I leave you alone for two weeks, and your mental health goes downhill fast. Tell me you're kidding."

"Nope." Wilson's voice didn't sound as if he were trying to wind House up.

"Suit yourself." House stole a slice of sweet pepper just to annoy Wilson.

He didn't take the bait.

"What happened to the bike?" he wanted to know instead.

So news hadn't travelled cross-country yet. He silently thanked Stacy for not telling Wilson what state he'd been in when he arrived in Short Hills.

"Do you want the long story or the short story?" House dropped his bag at the door to his bedroom.

Wilson paused for a long moment. His shoulders slowly rose and fell with his breath. He finally turned around and eyed House up and down, taking in his tired posture and the tear in his jacket.

He looked as drained as House felt. There were dark smudges under his eyes. But above those, his eyes sparkled.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked in reply to House's question.

"Yup."

_I am now._


End file.
